The First Servant
by firelordzuko
Summary: While the Empire rejoices in the fatherless birth of an heir to the Britannian throne, a new, bloodier rebellion tears it apart. With millions dying every day, the teenaged Crown Prince is sent away to Lord Gottwald's plantation, where both love and the horror of understanding await him - but as the latter murders the former, he is caught between Skylla and Charybdis.
1. Prologue: Parthenogenesis

This fanfiction started out as the translation of a German fanfiction (also written by me) in April 2011. The English version, however, took a life of its own. As of September 2012, the German version is discontinued. The English isn't.**  
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Warning ahead: this story will contain, amongst other things, bisexuality, angst, obscure references to obscure books, films, operas and artforms, a lot of detail, a well thought-through backstory, mindrape, implied incest, even more obscure references, politics, possibly language mistakes due to translation (though I'm revising the first chapters), Napoleon, Napoleonic France, Napoleonic Europe and Napoleon.

This story now has side-material! Look it up on my deviantArt account, firelord-zuko . deviantart . com (without the spaces). This includes maps and a lot of useless illustrations, but also a larger version of this story's cover image. Note that there might be spoilers.

**Summary: **While the Empire rejoices in the fatherless birth of an heir to the Britannian throne, a new, bloodier rebellion tears it apart. With millions dying every day, the teenaged Crown Prince is sent away to Lord Gottwald's plantation, where both love and the horror of understanding await him - but as the latter murders the former, he is caught between Skylla and Charybdis.

I am happy about every review I get and will reply to any question you ask as long as it's not an anonymous review. Seriously, I've had anonymous reviewers asking me questions.

I do not own Code Geass.

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><p><strong>The First Servant<strong>

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><p>"<em>I am the first servant of my state."<em>

– Frederick II the Great, King of Prussia

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><p><strong>Prologue – Parthenogenesis<strong>

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><p><em>Imperial Summer Palace at New Haven Shire, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_2nd of August 2019 Anno Ascensio thronum Britannicae (a.t.b.)_

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><p>The call from Britannia had come as a surprise, and, as always when her phone rang at midnight, it meant no good – and the phone of Colonel Kozuki Kallen of the Order of the Black Knights often rang at midnight.<p>

She had been in Japan, in Tokyo, deep asleep in the flat she shared with her mother: now, eleven hours later, she had landed at around 21 o'clock local time on the Homeland's east coast, in New England. An officer awaited Kallen by the runway; next to the black rump of the Order's transporter plane the stiff knight in the Imperial Guard's scarlet uniform and the dark stretch limousine with the Empress's standard seemed like toys.

"Colonel Stadtfeld?" he reassured himself, looking at her name tag, which only gave her Japanese name, though. So she affirmed, and with a curt bow the officer held open the car's door. Kallen got in and they drove off. The divider was up, the officer next to her silent.

Grumpily she tried to get a few glances on the houses, alleys and parks of the realm's makeshift capital through the darkly toned windows, but gave up soon. She hated this obsessive need of Britannian nobility to isolate themselves from the simple mob.

The officer kept silent.

"How's Nunnally?" she finally asked and the officer thoughtfully looked at her; he wore the bright scarlet Captain's uniform of the Imperial Guard, two pale blue eyes looked at her from a rosy face, thoughtful and surprised and she averted her gaze. She hated Britannians -

She remembered that she was just skipping school.

"Her Majesty is doing well," he then replied, "When I left the palace it did not seem to take much more until our holy Britannia has its heir. If only Her Majesty would give away the father's name ..."

They were silent, the car drove up the long, elm-bordered slip road to the Imperial Summer Palace. Soon the buildings came into their view: a magnificent neoclassicist building with tall, very tall windows and bright white walls of sandstone and marble. She had read that the several courts and the palace's sea side featured beautiful gardens and parks. The palace seemed to be far more liveable than the actual palace, which had been destroyed with Pendragon.

"Press, Majesty!"

Slightly ashamed Kallen turned her gaze from the bloody spectacle and from the agitated crowd of midwives, physicians and servants around the young empress. Nonetheless it drew her gaze, again and again. Gino – no, Lord Weinberg, Knight of Three, who had somehow shown up next to her – merely stared at the bloody imperial womb and looked like fainting.

Kallen felt useless, had never seen something like that, not even observed. She was no bloody midwife, she was a soldier! The screams of the delivering woman were ear-piercing. Besides, she had seen more than enough blood throughout her life and really did not need more.

Even more so – wasn't Nunnally only 15 … no, 16? A first child at 16, and from an unknown father! And seemingly the heir they longed for couldn't come soon enough for those damned Britannian nobles. How could that have happened at all? Nunnally might be sweet and innocent (or had been – at the moment she bore an uncanny resemblance to a dying walrus and she was certainly not innocent any more), but none of that could have been a reason for Lelouch to omit telling her about the birds and the bees! When she had been 15, Naoto had … Kallen's thoughts came to a halt. No, she had not been educated by her brother, either, but from her older friends in the ghetto of Shinjuku. And of course such topics had never even been mentioned at Ashford Academy – bloody Britannian prudery.

Nonetheless, Nunnally was a smart girl. Why for all gods' sakes had she and her ominous friend not used a condom, then?

Another loud scream from Nunnally and the encouraging call of the leading midwife ensuing interrupted her wandering mind.

"Yes, ma'am, well done, keep pressing! … I can see the head!"

Kallen heard a muffled sound next to her. Gino Weinberg, Knight of Three, had just fainted.

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><p>Finally the nude, red baby was put into her arms. Exhausted and incredibly weary, but content Nunnally watched her son. Strangely the newborn did not scream, but was merely staring at his mother from curious, wide, lilac eyes. With the help of a midwife Nunnally tried to feed him; it had gotten quiet in the Red Salon.<p>

"Milady," Sayoko finally asked, approaching her pallet, "Would you have a name in mind?"

Wearily Nunnally looked at her confidant. "I thought of … Faramond. Yes, that one I like – Faramond Ichiro Lelouch vi Britannia ..."

One of the midwives suppressed a scream, but Sayoko smiled understandingly. "Of course, ma'am. If it's all right with you, I shall take him now – His Highness The Prince Schneizel has to present your child to the court ..."

Nunnally softly kissed the slumbering newborn on the brow, then she handed it to Sayoko – reluctantly, it was _her _son, after all. Carefully the maid took the baby into her arms. "Rest now, milady. You've had an exhausting delivery."

From the corner of her eye Nunnally observed Sayoko dressing the infant in ridiculously dressy rompers in the Empire's colours and then passing him to Schneizel. The Prime Minister asked for the prince's name, then in surprise raised a brow. Finally he took the child into his arms, went to the salon's entrance. The halberd-armed guards flanking the large oakwood doors stood at attention, then took the brazen door handles and opened it.

Prime Minister Schneizel el Britannia, second Prince of the Realm, slowly paced to the adjacent Hall of Mirrors. Hundreds of pairs of eyes focused on him and the baby in his arms; almost the entire nobility of the realm seemed to be gathered here and in the tall mirrors that gave the hall its name countless rubies and emeralds and diamonds on the ladies' dresses reflected, lighted by soft candle light.

Schneizel highly lifted up the newborn prince, all the eyes in the hall followed him.

"His Imperial Highness The Prince of Wales and of Newfoundland, son of Her Imperial Majesty The Empress – the Crown Prince, Faramond Ichiro Alexander of Britannia!"

Jubilation broke out and for Nunnally, everything went black.

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><p>I was born the child of a mother and no father the 2nd August of the year 2019 a.t.b. – that is, at the end of a long decade that had brought with it suffering and pain and revolutions like barely another, in Britannia and in the world.<p>

The decade had begun with the Britannian annexation of Japan as Area 11. Thereby the Realm not only secured the country's vast deposits of sakuradite for its army and economy, but also gained a strategic bridgehead against the Chinese Federation and the EU. By now it is pointless to note what is common knowledge: that the two exiled children of Emperor Charles III, Prince Lelouch and Princess Nunnally vi Britannia, disappeared during the invasion – for the time.

This bridgehead – Japan – the realm immediately used to expand its influence in Asia as well as in Europe. Over the next years it were especially Prince Schneizel and Princess Cornelia who conquered countless territories for the Empire; the former with the weapons of the word and brilliant strategy, the latter by her character's power and her divisions of Knightmares.

But soon, but seven years after the conquest of the country – the sole under the banner of the Realm to preserve some stamina – a new world order emerged from Japan. From the ghettos or from the Britannian settlements of the rigid colony a man emerged who, albeit masked and nameless, became a symbol of hope and of freedom for the suppressed of the world: Zero.

To this day it is not settled what kind of connection existed between Zero and Lelouch vi Britannia. Similarly it is unknown by what means Zero carried out some of his plans; the theories go from bribery to supernatural powers.

Mostly settled is, however, that Zero debuted by completely annihilating a twentyfold superiority in Shinjuku and then assassinating the viceroy of Area 11, Prince Clovis. During the event at which a scapegoat – Suzaku Kururugi, who would gain some notoriety as a knight and traitor – was to be paraded to his trial, Zero then firstly appeared in public, even more so on live TV.

He had always managed to recruit the mass media for his purposes.

Zero won one battle after another, especially the one for the hearts of the Japanese. The resistance army led and founded by him – the Order of the Black Knights – grew and grew, until it became a force to be reckoned with. When Princess Euphemia, deputy viceroy under her sister Cornelia, lured thousands of Japanese together under the pretence of establishing a Special Administration Zone and then massacred them, the revolt began. The Black Knights soon gained superiority, until Zero – for unknown reasons – left the field. The revolt was crushed without its leader and made history as the First Battle of Tokyo or the Black Rebellion.

It was but a year later that Zero reappeared, and outright he annihilated an entire brigade under Viceroy Calares in Tokyo and entered an alliance with the Chinese Federation. His goal: an independent nation within first Tokyo, then in the whole of Japan.

Ensuing was a long fight sometimes with, sometimes against Britannia, sometimes with, sometimes against the Chinese: unquestionable was that the Black Knights under Zero now won and won. Nonetheless Japan was out of reach for now: when Viceroy Nunnally vi Britannia tried to convince Zero to cooperate with her on a second version of the Special Administrative Zone by the promise of free passage, the rebel leader managed to smuggle more than a million Black Knights and civilians onto an artificial island in the Gulf of Bohai – Horai Island, until today the headquarters of the Order of the Black Knights.

Shortly after that the order managed to pull off a coup d'etat against the Chinese Federation's High Eunuchs, bringing the Empress back to power. With the support of the crumbling superpower and parts of the endangered EU the Order managed to establish the United Federation of Nations – UFN or UNIFON – under Zero's control; and with its attack on Japan the Second Battle of Tokyo began, in the process of which the FLEIJA bomb developed by Nina Einstein was first used … the city centre of Tokyo was destroyed completely and Zero disappeared anew.

Recently the historians presume that Zero did not die nor went underground, but was indeed exchanged for Japan's independence in a truce between the Black Knights and Prime Minister Prince Schneizel as Britannia's representative. As a matter of fact there were and are no commentaries on that from either side, nor from Zero himself.

Apparently it seemed to the contemporaries that the Realm was vulnerable: independently Prince Schneizel and the Knight of Seven, Suzaku Kururugi, as well as the re-emerging Lelouch vi Britannia pulled off coups: the latter finally killed his father, the Emperor, and joined up with Kururugi. A month later Lelouch proclaimed himself Emperor and his childhood friend the Knight of Zero in Pendragon.

Thus began the reign of terror that went down to history as that of the Demon Emperor. An alliance between his own sister, Nunnally, his half siblings Schneizel and Cornelia, and the Black Knights came together against him, destroyed the Capital of Pendragon using FLEIJA bombs and was defeated in a magnificent battle above Mount Fuji, though Kururugi fell as well. Lelouch went on to grasp world domination and got it by merely threatening with FLEIJA.

Yet then, when everything had seemed lost for humanity, another hero thought dead emerged to the bright day: two months after the Battle of Mount Fuji Zero reappeared, as a complete surprise to everyone, directly in front of Lelouch and the cameras of the world on Tokyo's new parade avenue. In his hands he carried a golden blade … Zero stabbed Lelouch, ending the terror.

Nunnally ascended to the throne, returning the realm to a period of peace and its old borders before the reign of Charles III.

It did not take long, though – could not take long – until the old divides in society reappeared which had previously been covered by strong chauvinism against the numbers under Charles and then surpassed by common hate against Lelouch.

Now against each other turned: the Patriots, who wished to lead back Britannia to old glory and re-establish the nobility's privileges, the Democrats, fighting for a limitation of imperial power and a strengthening of the House of Commons, the Loyalists, who wanted to retain the current political system whilst pursuing a pacifist foreign policy and supported the Empress and her Prime Minister Prince Schneizel more than all the other groups, as well as the Republicans, who effectively wanted to abolish the Empire and the nobility in favour of popular rule.

All these parties fought each other against the will of the Empress, who preached peaceful coexistence. Sometimes they fought with words, sometimes with arms. They do so till today.

My name is Faramond.


	2. First Chapter: Chess

I hate Chess, and I hate Schneizel. Enjoy the chapter, nonetheless. Also, as a rule of thumb, chapters with a name have been corrected regarding language and factuality.**  
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><p><strong>First Chapter – Chess<strong>

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><p><em>Imperial Summer Palace at New Haven Shire, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_7th of August 2024 a.t.b._

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><p>Although the prime minister was my uncle and his offices were located in one of the palace's side wings, I had never been to them before the age of five. Now I stood, at the hand of my nanny, to whom I should soon bid farewell for ever, in front of Prince Schneizel's desk.<p>

I could barely perceive the prime minister's mien against the high front of windows, through which glittering light shone. The desk, though, was an old and heavy bloc of massive oakwood, the computer screen's body atop of it shined in the sunlight. The room was lined with bright white marble that made my eyes hurt. Probably it was meant to; the viewer was supposed to feel intimidated by so much conspicuous power radiating from Schneizel's already impressive enough figure.

The bureau's only decoration were a tall Britannian flag behind the desk and a life-sized portrait of the Empress on the wall to the left – one of many versions original of the official coronation portrait that hang in government offices, embassies, schools and military bases around the world. Depicted on it: the Empress in a low-cut, white and gold dress, seated in a throne hidden beneath her lavish Ermine robe in front of an vaguely classicist background with the towers of New Westminster outside the window; on a table by her side the Crown and some documents. She was strictly staring down on me.

"Leave us alone" Schneizel ordered my nanny; she bowed and left the room. I looked after her when the doors closed behind her.

"Faramond."

I looked at the prime minister, slightly confused, and now my eyes had gotten used to the dazzling light so that I could perceive his figure.

Schneizel had always been a tall, handsome man, and although his youth was long gone, he still managed to enchant people – men as women – by his charms, power and looks, although I – a child of five – barely noticed at this time.

The prime minister skipped through a folder on his desk without looking at me.

"You turned five on Saturday, did you not?" It was a calm diagnosis and no question, but I smiled a childish smile and affirmed.

"It's time to begin your education." Prince Schneizel looked up and, for the first time since I had entered, at me. "Today's your first day of school."

The joy I felt that day was one only a child that finally belongs to the "grown-ups" can feel, as ridiculous it might sound. However I, unlike many others, managed to preserve the joy of learning – although I did not have much of it during my own upbringing. Of course I anticipate –

"You will, beside English grammar and literature, be schooled in French, Japanese, Latin and Ancient Greek. Furthermore the violin and the piano, some visual arts and especially the history of the ancient, the mediaeval and the modern eras, sociology and politology, philosophy and rhetoric. In addition to that I shall _personally _school you in strategy … any objections?"

_Of course _I had no objections, I barely knew what those complicated words meant at that time. Well, I should soon learn, for I shook my head, smiling.

People used to say all the time that I were the exact image of my mother. Probably they did not search for resemblance to her, though, but to the Demon Lelouch: they sought for madness. What they saw, however, was a cute little boy with regular, aristocratic features, friendly lilac eyes and light brown wavy hair – they could just as well look at the Empress.

Now finally Prime Minister Schneizel closed the folder in his hands and put it on the desk. With his left hand's index and middle finger he carefully pushed it to the desk's edge, precisely. Then he opened the top drawer of his desk, took something out of it, closed the drawer and put a tiny polished ebony case on the desk. He moved it in my direction, and the words following that burned into my mind.

"Open it."

I did. Inside the case were on one side two sets – one in black, one in white – of 16 marble figures each, on the other a mahogany board. Ivory marquetries formed a checked pattern.

"This," Schneizel said "is a game of chess."

He placed the figures, the whites on his, the black on my side.

"Chess," he explained whilst doing so, "is a very old game. Its earliest predecessors are more than three thousand years old. Nonetheless it is very much up-to-date today: the game teaches us the fine art of strategy. Sunxi spoke: 'Qin zéi qin wáng', meaning as much as 'To capture the enemy's general'."

To capture the king, for – that the prime minister taught me again and again – no matter how many soldiers there were, no matter how much valour they had: without a good leader everything is lost and nothing won.

With his index finger the prime minister touched one of the white figures in the back row. It was a little taller than the others; its tip was spiked as though it wore a crown. "The King," he said. "Once the enemy's has been defeated, one has won. Should the own fall – all falls with him. At the same time the King is the weakest unit; he's a strategist, not a warrior. Therefore he is very slow. Nonetheless the King has to lead his subjects, lest they won't follow!"

He quickly explained the King's way of moving and the castlings, then he showed me the white Queen. She looked very similar to the King, yet was smaller and lacked the cross on her crown.

"The Queen is the most powerful piece. She can go as far as she wishes in all of the eight directions, thus is strong on the offensive – yet easy to attack, just as an ace like Lord Gottwald, Lord Weinberg or Lady Kozuki often lowers his guard to charge."

The prime minister replaced the Queen on her spot next to the white King, then took the white Queen's Rook, ignoring the two pieces in between. It was a tall, rectangular tower complete with battlements and a round base. "The Rook is, after the Queen, the strongest piece. It is quite swift – one can move it any number of fields along the vertical or horizontal – but also very powerful. Its true power unfolds but in the late game."

Then the Bishop, slightly smaller than the Queen, with a slanted tip like a flute's mouth piece. It reminded me of a bishop's mitre, and when Schneizel told me the chessman's name it confirmed my observation.

"The Bishop's a weak, yet fast piece. Develop him quickly in the opening, but do not hesitate to sacrifice him!"

Next was the Knight. It did indeed look like a rearing horse. "The Knight is likewise quite weak. Instead he is swift afoot in attack and defence. He can jump over other pieces and is therefore easy to develop in the opening."

Finally Prime Minister Schneizel took up one of the white King's pawns and showed it to me. "This is a pawn. They are the weakest unit on the battleground, yet essential. A single pawn can change the entire game's character in the opening. Still the pawn can generally be sacrificed far more easily than the other pieces – just like on the real battlefield, where entire regiments are given up for a positional advantage."

We played, he mated me within five moves.

We played, this time it took seven-and-a-half moves for me to move my own King into mate.

In the following years I would often attend Prince Schneizel's sporadic lessons on strategy. Almost always we played chess – needless to say that he always won, though I got closer and closer to him –, sometimes he had me discuss this or that topic of foreign or internal politics with him until he forced me back to his own position. Sometimes he had me study old and ancient battlefield reports, only to declare them nought afterwards, sometimes he gave me tasks (You oppose a dozen-fold superiority with fifty footmen and two fifth-generation Knightmares; the terrain is unfavourable – urban ruins, no firm ground – and are completely surrounded, what do you do?) which seemed unsolvable, yet weren't, as he would then prove to me.

Still I might probably say that Schneizel taught me a lot. His methods were autocratic to say at best, his standards for success strict, but in the long years of my education at his hands he shared the fine art of strategy with me – if there is any indicator for his achievements, it is the one that I gain a draw once in a while now.

I still was a hopeless student concerning politics.

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><p>The Empire's political system is complex and vague, having grown over centuries. It only adds to the general confusion that there is no constitution like in most states of the EU and the UFN, but only a web of legal customs, laws and decrees. The authority lies <em>de jure <em>with the Crown and with the Crown only, _de facto _power is held by the _Crown-in-Parliament_. This has meant since the 17th century a.t.b. that the Emperor – or until the Humiliation of Edinburgh the King – may do anything, as long as he does not conflict with the two other chambers of parliament.

This parliament consisted out of three chambers ever since the signing of the _Magna Carta _by John Lackland of England: the first is the sovereign – useless to reason why a single person is styled a "chamber" –, the second the House of Lords, consisting out of the churchly and worldly nobility of the realm and the third is the House of Commons, consisting out of the elected representatives of the people in counties and urban boroughs. Laws can only be made in unanimous decision of the three chambers, though the monarch can simply rule by Imperial Decrees, as Charles III and Lelouch demonstrated.

The House of Commons is the only chamber elected by the people, and thus meaningless – _de jure_. In fact it is the only mirror of Britannian society and supposed to be the voice of the people – therefore a great power is incumbent to it, _de facto_, and the Prime Minister – that has to be a member of the Lords, though – usually bases his government on one or several of the Commons' parties. By the way, the political structure of the so-called United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland is very similar – but in this former puppet state of Napoleon that still remains Britannia's homeland, kingship has become a mere farce. Monarch and Lords are nothing, the mob in the House of Commons everything.

The government of the Britannian Empire traditionally consists of the Prime Minister, Privy Council and the _Great Officers of the Crown and the Empire_. Those latter, traditional offices of the cabinet have been, growing with a modern world's standards, supplemented by a good dozen of other ministers; amongst them the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Ministers of the Interior and of Social Affairs as well as the Ministers of Environment, Education and Research and Economy. However Prince Schneizel has accumulated countless posts in his long time of office – and indeed executed them without a fail without even delegating details to his secretaries of state – so that the cabinet barely ever counted 20 members. Amongst Schneizels departments were, next to that of the Prime Minister, those of the Lord High Chancellor, the Lord High Treasurer, the Lord Keeper, the Lord Great Chamberlain, the Lord High Admiral, the Lord Chamberlain of the Household and of the Foreign Minister; and in his long time of office he ruled with the support of the Patriots, the Democrats and the Loyalists – of course never at the same time.

As mentioned above the House of Commons is the only chamber elected by the people – regularly every four years, although the monarch can dissolve the Commons earlier. Thus, the new House of Commons first convenes every four years the fifth of December to render homage unto the Emperor or the Empress. The MPs hail from all parts of the realm that are not colonies, but mostly from the Areas One, Two and Three – the latter are also known as Canada and Mexico, while Area One is often used synonymously to "The Homeland". South America and the Crown's oceanic possessions are represented far more weakly.

The Realm is divided into electoral districts, sending one MP to the House of Commons each; in northern Britannia one district has an average population of 710,500, in the south however it has about 1,500,000 inhabitants per district – and thus per representative. This can be explained by the historical assessment of South America as a subordinate part of the realm and the repression of the then-often revolts. Of course South America – that is, the Areas Six or continental South America, Seven alias Hawaii and Midway and Eight or the Falklands and adjacent islands – were equal parts of Britannia even in 2010 a.t.b., when the realm first expanded to the west – according to law. However, the North counts more than twice as much as the South in elections.

In the year of 2024 a.t.b., the year in which I was firstly schooled by Prince Schneizel, elections for the House of Commons were held. Running were candidates from more than a hundred parties, the most important ones were however – as before – the Republicans, the Loyalists, the Democrats and the Patriots. Elected were 640 MPs from the North – Canada, The Homeland, Mexico and Greenland – and 260 MPs from the South. They first convened the 5th of December of 2024 a.t.b. in the ancient Houses of Parliament of the former and new capital New Haven for the opening of Parliament by the Empress. Before, the Commons used to meet in a grand, domed plenary hall in the Imperial Palace at Pendragon, yet it was of course destroyed together with the rest of the city.

Now the House of Commons consisted of exactly 900 representatives. Prime Minister Prince Schneizel's party of Loyalists, promoting a peaceful coexistence in the consisting borders and systems, curtly gained absolute majority with 467, which was still an approval for Schneizel's policies. The Republicans gained 33 and the Democrats 97 districts … the Patriots however, who became more and more militaristic, gained 283 mandates. Not a single of the 260 southern districts except for the two Hawaiian ones (which had elected Democrats) had gone to another party than that of the Patriots.

This election was the beginning of the end of the Holy Britannian Empire.


	3. Second Chapter: Rebellion

**Second Chapter – Rebellion**

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><p><em>Main base of Imperial Army Southern Division XI, near Rio de Janeiro, Area 6<em>

_4th of January 2026 a.t.b._

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><p>Charles Arthur Wellesley-Beaufort, Duke of Wellington and of York, was a light sleeper, and thus he was awakened that morning by the sound of vehicles on the short metal bridge spanning over the trickle in front of the base's main gate. Dozily yawning he sat up in bed, blinked and looked around the room. The flat was small, barely bigger than one of the rooms in the next-door barracks, too small in fact for a family of three. The furniture of the bedroom consisted out of a double bed, two bedside cabinets, and a dresser. One could see narrow bars of light through the blinds on the two windows. Dust flakes danced in the rays of light.<p>

With a suppressed yawn Charles looked at his alarm clock – Josephine and his son were probably still asleep. _0815 … _He pushed the blanket aside and got up. Still exhausted, he scuffled to the window, slightly raised one of the blind's slats – impossible to get through Rio's summer with the windows closed at night – and looked out to the wide, puddle-filled yard. The motor's noise had by now been substituted by voices.

In the court by the headquarters two plane-covered lorries stood, out of which got a group of men and women, some in the uniform of the Imperial Guard, some in that of the Black Knights. They were brightly chatting, but most of them were armed.

Charles cursed quietly, broke away from the window and hurried to the dresser. Josephine turned around in bed and drowsily asked him what was going on.

"Don't bother, darling," he tried to calm her down and quickly changed into his uniform. "There seems to be a small problem with one of the units that are to oversee the Realm's disarmament."

Josephine sat up and rubbed her eyes whilst Charles already closed the buttons of his tunic. "I really shouldn't have married a soldier …," she laughed. Charles smiled and gave her a short kiss on the cheek.

"I'll just go and look what's going on. I'll be back in no time." As she disappeared under the blanket again, Charles threw a quick look into his son's bedroom and smiled at the sight of five-years old Charles Alexander sucking his thumb –, then he left the small family's flat and carefully closed the door.

At only 31 years, the Duke of Wellington and Lancaster was quite young, yet already commander of an elite division of Her Majesty's army in the rank of major-general. Often he'd had to defend against the accusation of having risen this quickly only through his wealth – after the family's move to the small commander's office his manor in South Virginia was vacant, though – and his family name: an absurd charge; anyone who wished to could see his record in the Chief of Staff's office or at the Imperial War Office.

Charles left the base's headquarters and stepped out to the yard. Everything was still wet from previous' night's tropic rains and on the bumpy concrete countless puddles had formed. The yard was lined with buildings: there the men's barracks, there the hangars of the regiment's Knightmares, and heavy equipment. Behind him were the headquarters, in the upper story of which his family's flat was, the officers' residences and the arsenal. To his right the main gate of the base, embedded in a chain-mesh fence with barbed wire atop and flanked by sentry boxes. In the yard's centre stood a flag pole from which the realm's flag sagged.

By the flag pole, however, someone had parked four lorries and a smaller SUV. Some fifteen men and a few women in the uniforms of the Guard and the Black Knights had uneasily gathered around their cars, as they were surrounded by angered soldiers of his own unit. Charles had a bad feeling about it and thus hurried to his deputy, Brigadier Neil Andersen, who was having a lively argument with an Asian Black Knight. The usually sharp-dressed regiment commander was ill-clad now; his uniform's jacket was crinkled and not completely buttoned, he was neither shaved nor combed.

"What's going on here?," Charles asked, moving towards the two men and noticed that he had spoken too quietly. Charles repeated his question, louder this time, and nearly immediately was the centre of attention. Neil turned away from the Black Knight and to him. "Charles, good you're there! You won't believe it, those guys want to take our Knightmares from us!"

As expected. This was the only issue for which units of the Order of the Black Knights were allowed into Britannia – the Empire still being no UFN member –, namely the supervision of its disarmament. Within the framework of the Okinawa Treaty, which had been a milestone towards Britannia's readmission to the international community, the realm voluntarily resigned the majority of its Knightmare Frames from seventh generation upwards. Only few exceptions were made, amongst them Charles' unit, the Southern Division XI.

Therefore Charles turned to the Asian, a certain _S. Tamaki_ according to his name tag who was grinning with a certain satisfaction. "Is that true?" – "Yeah. According to the Treaty of Okinawa ..."

Charles interrupted him. "But … Southern Division XI is exempt from this treaty, by special order of Her Majesty."

One of the guardsmen in bright scarlet uniform joined the Black Knight. "He's right. We're here under the orders of Her Majesty The Empress and His Highness The Prince Schneizel. Here, look for yourself." – he handed Charles a file with the Great Seal of Britannia, which was kept by the Empress.

Almost reverently Charles opened it. It contained only a single sheet of paper and he skimmed through the contents. Hastily his gaze went to the document's bottom: indeed, there shone forth broad, excessive, baroque and arrogant the signature of _HIH The Prince Schneizel, First Lord of the Treasury (and so forth)_.

Charles looked up from it. "They … they assured us that we'd stay untouched …"

The guard only shrugged. "That might be so," he said, "but we're here by the order of the Prime Minister. Well then ..." He looked at his documents. "We need a quittance on twenty RPI-V4L _Gareth _and … fifty-three RPI-212B _Vincent Ward_, is that correct?"

Yes, it was. By that the division, with its heavy focus on Knightmare forces, would be robbed of almost its entire combat strength. The loss of combat strength meant the loss of influence – without its seventh generation Knightmares, the Southern Division XI would become meaningless.

A rumbling went through Charles' soldiers gathered around the strangers; with a short glance he noticed that most of his own were armed, whilst only the half dozen guardsmen that had come with the Black Knights bore side-arms – the Order of the Black Knight was not allowed to move as a military unit within Britannia and thus they had the same rights as any other foreigners. Tamaki and his men were visibly uneasy; again and again they eyed the Britannians around them.

Neil took him aside. "What shall we do?," he quietly asked. "We can't just allow these guys to take our Knightmares. The men are getting uneasy … shall we …?" He did not finish the sentence but the threat was in the air.

Charles looked to the ground. What were his options?

For one, he could obey and lose all his influence, with his men as well. And what if those Knights and Dames, who would probably be laid off without their Knightmares, went for themselves – what if they mutinied? His gaze went over his shoulder to his bedchamber's window in the headquarters. Behind the jalousie he could dimly see Josephine. Charles Alexander probably still was sleeping. No – he couldn't, he would not allow something to happen to them.

Other than that? He could call New Haven Shire, argue with the responsible clerk for hours – he would not even get to talk to a deputy secretary of state, even with his noble rank, and most certainly not the Prime Minister. He could make use of his peerage privilege of access to the Empress – but everybody knew that Empress Nunnally would, in case of doubt, always endorse disarmament. Also, he was a member of the Patriot Party – as most of his men were – and did not know his way around the confusing court ceremonial. In the mean time they would already have taken his Knightmares and scrapped or handed them to the UFN, anyway.

Or he could oppose them, have the Black Knights and the guardsmen executed and call for a rebellion with the help of the Patriots, the Southern nobility and his four regiments.

Once again Charles Wellesley-Beaufort looked around his soldiers, looked at Neil who awaited orders, the politely smiling officer of the Guard, the cheeky Black Knight, Josephine up there at the window.

Then he turned to the strangers.

"All of us have sworn an oath to Her Majesty. This oath, however, is based on mutual trust and protection – what is, then, if the liege betrays the vassal?" Charles took a deep breath. Then he loudly spoke:

"I, Charles Arthur Wellesley-Beaufort, Duke of Wellington and Lancaster, make herewith known to all men by these present, that our holy Britannia – no, the usurper on the Throne of Eowyn has betrayed us all! I herewith declare that every oath given to the traitor Nunnally Tudor-Britannia is nought!"

Horror and panic held sway on the faces of the Black Knights and guardsmen, the latter reached for their side-arms in a foolish attempt to run from their fate, yet were already surrounded by Charles' men.

"... execute the traitors."

Blood splattered as bullets shot from many dozen muzzles and stained his uniform. Muffled screams.

When the arms lay silent, Neil Andersen stepped forth, took Charles' wrist and lifted it up.

"Long live His Imperial Majesty – Charles IV, Emperor and King! All Hail Britannia! All Hail Charles!"

* * *

><p>So now he was Emperor.<p>

Charles had left his division's officers at the table to themselves some time ago. Now he stood, hands folded behind his back, at the window of the conference room. The officers' discussion had almost died down, a light dinner of cold roast and sandwiches had been prepared.

Charles observed his reflection in the window and saw a young man with aristocratic features that suggested determination and authority: straight nose, distinctive cheekbones – all in all a handsome face. From his deep blue eyes, though, shone insecurity … fear. They had committed treason today, all of them, by murdering guards and legates … the punishment for treason was death – it couldn't take long.

And still, no matter how insecure the future was – the only thing Charles repented was that he'd had no time to shave that morning: he hated to be unshaven. It made him feel unclean … also, it didn't befit the leader of a possibly historic rebellion to be this unprepared.

"Sire?" Only now he noticed that Neil's question was directed at him – it seemed as though he had asked them several times before. Charles turned to him and the other officers at the table, all of whom looked at him full of expectation.

Almost immediately after the massacre he had phoned the commanders of his second, third and fourth regiment to the main base: after their arrival all of them had declared their full support.

"We were talking about our first target, Your Majesty."

Charles frowned. "I guess we're lucky if we manage to find exile somewhere in the EU … we only have fifteen thousand men. That's an awfully tiny band of brothers to take on Britannia."

A colonel from the third regiment gave a slight cough. "Sire, we can be rather certain that much of the southern army and the populace will support us once we've proven ourselves. We gathered that much. The question remains how to achieve that. Now Lord Fitzgerald proposed to move to São Paolo, take over the city and use its resources against Rio. I and Lord Grant however think that this would stretch our forces too much – I think it would be best to take the city of Vitória north of us first instead. With some good luck, we could probably get the garrison to mutiny. What do you think, Sire?"

Thoughtfully Charles moved to the table, examined the map on it – pinned down by two empty plates, a pen and a case of small plastic chip tactical signs. It showed in a large scale the southern Britannian east coast.

"Gentlemen," he finally said, "if I may call your attention to something as your … liege …" Charles tipped on the map, on the spot their division was marked by a blue chip displaying a stylised Knightmare, three Xs above and the number 11 to the left of it.

"As you know, Emperor Lelouch stood here seven years ago, on this spot, opposing one of the several revolts against his rule. He had a single division – by chance, this one, as the core of his troops had not survived the Battle of Mount Fuji. His forces would not have been sufficient to take and hold the city. Now, while it would not have been unlike him to raze Rio to the ground, he did not. Instead, he did what was required – he entered the city with the bulk of his forces from the West and simply denied the rebels battle … At the end of the day Lelouch had brought Rio de Janeiro under his control and crushed the local resistance. He had lost barely a man."

Charles looked around his officers.

"In other words, it _is _possible to secure Rio immediately. We'll do that first."

"How comes," Fitzgerald finally asked, "you're this adept on the campaigns of Lelouch? Those were no standard readings at St. George's."

Charles looked at him. "Well, they should be," he then said. "Emperor Lelouch was, by all scales, a true genius."

Some brows were raised in surprise. Charles had the awkward feeling that he should have phrased that differently.

* * *

><p><em>Imperial Summer Palace at New Haven Shire, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_6th of January 2026 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>"Good morning, Nelly."<p>

The princess sighed. "And a good morning to you, dear brother. And kindly don't call me that."

Schneizel sniggered and sat opposite his sister at the conference table. The large room usually seemed cold due to the omnipresent white marble and stainless steel, but this morning it was warmed by the bright winter sun outside the tall windows. Overnight it had snowed again and the spacious park below them, on the palace's sea side, was covered by a thick white layer.

"What's been your problem with me calling you Nelly lately? We've always called you that," he continued to tease.

Cornelia rolled her eyes and sorted her documents.

"Schneizel, that was when I was a child. A _child_. We barely talked to each other on private occasions after I left for military academy, and now I'm just not the same young girl that wanted to be like Lady Marianne. I'm 36 years old, damn it … and you're the same age as I. So _please _stop calling me Nelly."

Schneizel laughed appeasing. The door was opened and the Empress was wheeled inside by Zero. Reverently the Prime Minister raised, so did Cornelia. "Lord Zero, Nunnally."

Nunnally. Still she dressed in girly dresses in shades of pink; still she looked like when she was 15 years old – her body had become more feminine and she did not smile as much as she used to; the stress of her office visibly gnawed at her – but even at 23 years her face still was radiant with the innocent beauty that had driven Lelouch the Demon to madness.

"Good morning. Please, sit," she warmly asked. The dark knight behind her kept silence, as usually, and wheeled the Empress to her place at the table's head. Schneizel and Cornelia complied; Zero sat across Nunnally.

"So then, what is it today?" Nunnally eventually asked them. The Prime Minister searched in his files. "Well, firstly: the Treasury estimates an economic growth of around two percent for 2026; that's alright. Our subventions for the high-tech industry are successful, the sector's growing ragingly fast."

Schneizel put the paper aside, took the next one. "The program for your meeting, Nunnally, with the Tianzi in two weeks is settled for now. Your focus of the talks will probably be our disarmament."

"I shall try to better our relations to her and the USC further," Nunnally added "I'd love to see Britannia become a member of the UFN, so that we can repent for Onii-sama's fault."

Embarrassed silence.

Then Cornelia took her papers. "The day before yesterday we lost contact to an elite division near Rio de Janeiro and to the Black Knights and guardsmen responsible for their disarming. At the moment we think that it might be a mutiny, but our reports from Rio are contradicting. Some sources say that the rebels have attacked the town, others say they have already taken it."

The Empress sighed disappointedly. "It's a pity that some people are like this."

"We currently have one army scattered across Area Six. The best we can use at the moment is a double-strength mixed division under Major-General Toby near … Asunción. I already set the unit to march, we will hold Rio again in four to five days."

"Do we know the leader of the rebels?," Schneizel asked.

"Yes, it is …" Cornelia skimmed through her papers. "Charles Arthur Wellesley-Beaufort, Duke of Wellington and Lancaster. An ancient house and a name that is as famous as it is long; it is said that he always excelled at everything. That rebellion will break his neck – pity to lose such a good soldier."

Suddenly Zero spoke. He showed no impulse, his mask was as always an abysmal black nothingness.

"Your Majesty, if you can dispense with me here, let me crush the rebellion. I have a very bad feeling with that one."

Cornelia shot him a stealthy glance; what was that man _thinking_? Schneizel rose and talked at his master; he shouldn't endanger himself. Zero however ignored both of them. His gaze seemed to be fixed on Nunnally, who returned it. Finally she said: "No. No, Zero, I want … I want you to stay here, with me. I don't want you to go into danger needlessly and I confide that Cornelia will solve the problem just fine."

Submissively Zero bowed his head. "... as you wish."

Indeed, Cornelia couldn't help to thing, this man was made to comply. Immediately she scolded herself for that thought, though, he had to fill huge footsteps and comparing him to his predecessor would be useless.

Schneizel rose.

"Now, I think that would be everything for today – a calm day. Lord Zero … Your Majesty … _Nelly_ ..."


	4. Third Chapter: Assassin

**Third Chapter – Assassin**

* * *

><p>The well-disposed reader may apologise that I shall now simply skip an outrageously long time span; however he may understand that it is necessary.<p>

No – ignore what I just said. Ignore the last sentence as well, though, for "you" are (with a probability bordering on certainty) not existent as this (what do I write for, then?) shall by my will never be read by anyone, excepting perhaps an overworked cherub on the day of the revival of all flesh and paper.

So, couldn't I just go over the next seven years in detail as well?

No, I couldn't, for several reasons – for one I remember only a few key scenes from that time (that are not important in retrospective – all the important things of that time I would have to reinvent for a detailed description. How could I then insist on authenticity?); for another that time is not of any relevance to me; it would drive me to death by boredom to write these seven event-less years of my life. Not that I will live too long after finishing this manuscript.

But wait – don't they say that the child is the father of the man? – only this I have to say about that: I lived in utter luxury up to my fourteenth year. There were no friends, nor any kind of family life: my mother, the Empress, was away almost all the time on her quest to return Britannia to being a good neighbour on our planet, as it had last been at the time of her grand-grandfather, Henry XII the Good. Often she travelled to Japan, often to China and Europe, she was the first Britannian monarch since Elizabeth III to visit the British isles. Zero, her dark knight, followed her around the globe.

Although, that I knew, my grandfather Charles III had fathered over a hundred children, of them beside mother only the demon Lelouch – who was, according to common knowledge, killed by Zero shortly afterwards – as well as Prince Schneizel and Princess Cornelia survived the destruction of Pendragon. I never had much contact to Cornelia, especially after the civil war had broken out and she had taken command of our front army. Concerning Schneizel – well, I would have been more than happy to cut all contact with him.

My life as the Crown Prince brought a lot of amenities – yet a lot of media hype as well. Often it would seem to me as though the people had no other topics to inform about than the Imperial Family. At first it was quite bemusing; yet when a reporter broke into my playroom and the next day a complete, well-pictured list of my toys was on the front-page of a republican tabloid, the head of the Guard and my mother decided that not only the security would be enforced but also that I would be shut of from the media. Up to today there are next to no photos of me and even my entry in the infamously extensive Encyclopædia Britannica Online contains only a very succinct description of my childhood and youth. Excepting two official portraits there are no photos at all.

Nonetheless, back to topic. I stopped at the rebellion of Charles IV.

Following that – after the murder of the Black Knights and the guardsmen by the men of Charles Wellesley-Beaufort's Southern Division XI – the anti-emperor showed his talent. With the support of the Patriot Party, who were especially strong in the south of the realm (as already mentioned), and the garrisons and units scattered across this area and joined him after a demonstration of his power, Charles IV conquered first all of Brazil up to the Amazon, then the Grand Duchies of Paraguay and Plate River. All that took only a few weeks: the rebellion began January 4, 2026 – February 26, 12am, the rebels controlled all the land from the snowy peaks of the Andes up to the Atlantic, all the land from the wild Amazon to stormy Cape Horn.

Princess Cornelia moved two armies to the Amazon and the same number of fleets to the South Atlantic; prepared a reconquest.

This was the beginning of a long, bloody war that would make history as the Second Britannian Civil War – the first had been the war of succession or "The Anarchy" between Stephen of Blois and Empress Maud from 1190 to 1209 a.t.b..

Naturally a genius like Charles IV, a second Napoleon, could not stop at such "insecure" borders: he examined a map of South America, then he led his armies and his Knightmares through snow and ice across the Andes, taking Chile, Peru and south-western New Granada in a surprise coup. Alarmed – obviously he had underestimated the threat – Prince Schneizel introduced conscription in Area Three and created four new armies. Such an operation could of course not be kept secret from the enemy and thus – to create a favourable front line before the fresh troops would arrive – Charles rushed his men up north in forced marches, until he and his advance party met the Realm's XIX and XXI Armies near Bogotá.

Charles himself barely had an army, poorly equipped and exhausted – but the advance guard that met the foe first did not only chiefly consist of modern Knightmares of the types _Vincent Ward _and _Gareth, _but was also commanded by himself.

To make a long story short: the North was completely defeated. Charles – here it may be justified to ignore the soldiers in favour of an ingenious leader – inflicted more than twenty thousand casualties on the Realm; captured more than a thousand Knightmare Frames. What hurt even more, however, were the territories he had thus taken: all of New Granada – Charles IV now was the unquestioned ruler of all of Area Six, the whole of South America, and he had won it in mere three months. My mother fell to deep depressions, she deemed peace lost forever.

The survivors retreated to Panama, thereto where Central America was the narrowest. There they joined up with the three fresh armies; the Army Group South was created. Yet the fear of Charles had grown in the North and thus not only one, not two but three Knights of the Round were send to the front: the Knight of Nine, Sir Lance Fisher, the Knight of Twelve, Sir Percy Fitzgerald and Lord Gino Weinberg, Knight of Three out-of-service left, albeit uncalled, his partner and children in Tokyo to place his services at the realm's disposal again.

There is a small anecdote that Colonel Kozuki of the Order of the Black Knights – said partner – chased him out of their flat with her _Guren _after he had revealed his plans to leave her. As far as I know it is true.

Princess Cornelia herself took command at the front – the main reason for me barely knowing her. Indeed she managed to take war back to Area Six, but soon she had to retreat again as supplies came to a halt. Famines sprung up in Columbia and Panama because both sides' soldiers had to supply themselves from the fruits of the land.

Let's take stock.

The Holy Britannian Empire had lost the whole of South America within mere three months – all the land south of the river Chuqunaque along with millions, no, billions of subjects and invaluable resources. Britannia had lost a quarter million of its best and supplies amounting to thirty-four billion Pound Sterling. Aside from the fighting, half a million people had perished from malnutrition, disease and collateral damage.

For the first time since the Humiliation of Edinburgh Britannia had to ask for help from outside. In an emotional, heart-breaking speech to the Supreme Council of the UFN (commonly abbreviated SC-UNIFON), Nunnally renewed Britannia's request to the organisation. Despite the support of Lord Zero, the Empress of China and Secretary Sumeragi the motion was shot down. The anti-Britannian sentiment from the time of Charles III and Lelouch still sat deep. Her Majesty was completely devastated as last after her brother's death (or so they say; I was not there).

On the Corcovado in Rio de Janeiro the monumental statue "Lelouch Imperator Conquistor" was erected.

In September there were heavy delays in supplying the North's troops due to Patriot attacks on support lines. Cornelia gorily put down a hunger insurgency and imposed martial law on Area Three.

In December 2027 a.t.b., then, not one of the generals turned the tide, but a semi-crazy scientist at Yale: Lord Lloyd Asplund, the eccentric inventor who had developed the _Lancelot _and most other Britannian seventh-generation Knightmares now created – within a few days after having been given the request – the _Parceval_; a mass-production combination of the almost legendary Knightmares _Tristan Divider _and _Lancelot Conquista_. Mass-production started the same month and soon Cornelia managed to go into offensive again – the front moved a few dozen kilometres south.

Sadly I shall have to skip the next six years without a commentary – war raged on; but I can not speak about it. A child as I was did of course know of the fact and saw the omnipresent hints – on the roofs of the palace anti-air and anti-missile ordnance was erected, more Knightmares and guards than usual patrolled the area and once or twice there had even been cruisers and destroyers of the Imperial Navy lying in sight of the summer palace in the Atlantic. Nonetheless the war barely touched a prince of eight years; it was too far away. Nor did I know anyone who could have told me about the suffering at the front-lines – the guardsmen all came directly from the renominated military academies, I did not have any friends (as already told) and Princess Cornelia, who suffered with her men like an Alexander or Napoleon, I rarely ever saw. There was no one able to tell of that time later as well, albeit many had lost their fathers in the war. Nor had the men and women I should later serve with been present in the first chaotic years.

Never mind.

The one event I have to tell of – for it was the beginning of my life – happened on April 15 in the year 2033 of Eowyn and was, seen alone, truly no reason for happiness.

Her Majesty The Empress – my mother – besides her countless other duties used to give weekly audiences for all those not possessing the treasured peerage privilege of imperial access. At those audiences she would listen to pleas, claims and problems of the common people; make propositions for a peaceful solution and promise to make up for past wrongs.

On that day was such an audience. The Empress mediated two neighbourhood disputes, ordered a court to carry out a case another time and pardoned two criminals. A young man stepped forth; his clothes and the sabre on his side identified him as a nobleman. Nobles possessed the privilege of direct access to the Empress at any time.

My mother dismissed the young woman that had called unto her for the sake of her brother with a regal kiss on the forehead, then she smiled at the young noble. The man was trembling, he was pale.

The nobleman's hand moved into his overcoat, pulled out a gun, pointed it at the Empress and fired twice. Then he put the weapon to his own brow and pulled the trigger.

Loud screams, the guards by Nunnally's side jumped before their liege to protect her (too late of course). Zero charged at the assassin and took the gun from him; admittedly he was almost dead already.

Blood soaked the dress of the Empress, unconsciously she fell from her wheelchair.

* * *

><p><em>Suite 512, Palace Hotel, Mexico City, Area Three, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_22nd of April 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>Gottwald and Zero interrupted their chat and rose when the Princess and Groomy entered. Asplund remained seated, but gave his former assistant a smile.<p>

"At ease, gentlemen."

Cornelia looked around the room before joining the men at the grand, round conference table. High windows, stucco decorations, a decidedly too neo-baroque fresco on the ceiling. Ancient furniture in the style of King William III; flower arrangements. She sat down, directly across Zero, next to Gottwald. Her black leather briefcase she put to the floor.

"How's Her Majesty?" the knight quietly inquired.

For a moment Cornelia thoughtfully continued to observe the fruit basket before her. Then she responded without looking at the knight. "Not well. The doctors say she'll make it, but Nunnally lost a lot of blood … an awful lot. Perhaps there will be permanent damages ..." She trembled. "How can one do such a thing … to shoot a young girl in a wheelchair in cold blood? Nunnally really didn't deserve this ..."

Jeremiah refrained from reminding the princess that her soldiers committed similar atrocities on a daily basis according to the secret memorandums. Though even if it was so, he understood and felt with her.

He gave a slight cough, then stiffly rose.

"I'm glad to have all of you here," he baldly, but honestly greeted. It was still weird to see how _different_ the people gathered around him here were – after all, that was what the Zero Requiem meant.

"Surely all of you are informed about last week's events. Lord Zero and Lady Cornelia have both carried out detailed investigation on the recent attack on Her Majesty … please, Cornelia."

"Thank you, Jeremy," Cornelia replied, staying seated, as she took a sheet of narrowly printed paper out of her case

"Our search has given the following: the assassin was a certain Neville Beauvais, a baron. 25 years old, a good family and education. Studied cultural anthropology at the University of Pennsylvania and finished with a good MA … nothing unusual so far. Except for a few parking tickets, he had no conflicts with the police … however, the OSI had a file on him for some time because he had contacts in Rio. He was a spy of the South and only still free because we were searching for accomplices."

"How was he then allowed to the audience? I thought all participants had to identify themselves?," Cecile inquired. Lloyd see-sawed back and forth in his armchair, playing with a pencil he had found somewhere in his obligatory lab coat.

"We noticed that as well," Cornelia affirmed and ducked when Lloyd sent his pencil flying with terrible aim. "So we reviewed the security cameras from the lobby of the audience hall again and questioned the guards. Beauvais had, as it seems, no ID with him, only a card identifying him as a nobleman. The guards did their job and told him to leave and come back next week. Just in that moment, however, one of Her Majesty's highest-ranking bodyguards came strolling by and said that he knew the man and he should just go in – Sir Gavin Hamley, the Knight of Four."

Surprise and even horror showed on the faces of the others. Zero kept silent.

"But … but that's a blatant lie!," Gottwald bristled. "My Knights of the Round have vowed by their honour to protect Her Majesty!"

Lloyd anticipated Cornelia's answer. Being a scientist with heart and soul he gave a cool, objective analysis. "But not all men are as chivalric as you, _Orenji-kun. _And the Knights of the Round are chiefly members of the peerage – people friendly to the goals of the south. You caught yourself some really _special _knights – _omedetto_!"

Embarrassed silence; Lloyd was right.

"But if Hamley really is a traitor … Her Majesty's life's in utter danger …" Gottwald murmured.

"Even worse. Lord Zero and I are quite certain that there's more than one knight behind the attack – Sir Gino Weinberg, Sir Lance Fisher and Sir Percy Fitzgerald might be at the front fighting one skirmish after another with their rivals from the South, but even they're not necessarily innocent. Then we have Sir Gavin Hamley, Lady Vivian Spencer, Lady Elaine DeWitt, Lady Alstreim and you, Jeremiah – you're without doubt innocent."

"Thanks. I can vouch for Anya" Jeremiah added. "The girl lives at mine; she hasn't touched a Knightmare for years nor shown the slightest interest in politics."

Cornelia grimly nodded, took up Lloyd's flying pencil and crossed out one of the names on her list. "Only six suspects, then."

"Bad enough. One only needs one to slay Her Majesty … even two false knights would be a catastrophe of unforeseen scale. The mass of information they must have passed those cowardly traitors in the South by now ..."

"That'd explain some of the ambushes my men had to fight," Cornelia added. "I shall try and see which of the three knights under my command has betrayed us and Nunnally. At last I can trust in my staff ..."

They silenced.

"It might be right to attack the problem at it's root," sounded then Zero's deep and warped voice. Cornelia, Jeremiah and Cecile shot the dark knight a confused look, they had not expected him to talk. "But the solution will take a lot of time. Until then we'll have to take measures for the safety of the Imperial Family. Other than that I don't believe the Knights of the Round would betray Nunnally – certainly it was a lone assassin. Sir Hamley will have helped him only out of pity, he's a good man ..."

"That's enough, Zero!," Cornelia interrupted him sharply and rose in anger. "I can't listen to that whining any longer. We can't be careful enough, _you _of all people should know how easily an assassination can be done, how fast some _… knights _betray their masters!"

Calming her, Jeremiah put his hand on the princess's forearm and reluctantly she sat down.

"No matter whether the Knights of the Round are traitors or not," he said once all of them had calmed down, "I've had been thinking for quite some time that they – no matter how apt at piloting – are no longer able to protect Her Majesty."

"Ah, but who else shall?," Lloyd asked, smiling, leaning forward interestedly. "The Guard alone will certainly not be enough ..."

Jeremiah laughed, looked around his allies in amusement and wonder. "Isn't that obvious? The Knights of the Round are no longer able to fulfil every wish of Her Majesty and protect her against _any _kind of danger – no one who does not _know_ can." Jeremiah rose, spreading his arms. "And thus it shall not be the Knights of the Round's to protect Her Imperial Majesty – they shall only be her sword. It is _us _who have to be her shield. It is _us _who have to build upon her trust, have to take influence on her rule to fulfil our tasks … Justice. Peace. A gentle world … no. We can not, we _shall _not allow the Knights of the Round or any other noble warmongers get influence on the realm."

Zero rose and silently left the suite. The others' looks followed him till the door had closed behind him.

Jeremiah cleared his throat and sat down again. "Well, he'll get over it ..."

"But don't we already have the court under our control?," Cecile now asked, "Schneizel obeys Zero and Nunnally's on our side ..."

Cornelia affirmed. "But the court's not only our people. Parliament is becoming mightier, being naughty – father always had the chambers in his grasp, but Nunnally's too nice for that. She will – and does – leave the Lords and Commons their will … and at the moment both Houses are favourable to the South. I can not defend our border with the South, let alone continue the war, if I don't have access to the pool of conscripts and the Houses don't give me money for their equipment."

Awkward pause.

"Well then," Cecile eventually said. "But what shall we do now? The Empress is still in utter danger. Shan't we rather have her disappear for a while?"

"I would not bother too much about Nunnally for now," Cornelia reasoned. "The Guard seems to think of it as their fault. To regain their honour, they'll closely watch Nunnally from now on. Furthermore, the summer palace at New Haven Shire was built by Elizabeth III with ease of defence in mind. It's as good as impenetrable. Also, she's got Zero – and even if we had to, we could not move Nunnally. She's got far too many duties and her condition's too bad right now. No, I'd rather worry about her son, Faramond."

"I guess you're right," Jeremiah affirmed. "A child is far easier to kidnap or attack than a grown lady in a wheelchair. He is not guarded as well as Her Majesty and also a better hostage: the Empire's lost without him because it would fall to Schneizel. Perhaps we should have _him_ disappear for a while?"

April 22, 2033 a.t.b., Princess Cornelia, Zero, Jeremiah Gottwald, Lloyd Asplund and Cecile Groomy met in a hotel room in Mexico City and decided to send me to the Californian orange plantation of Lord Gottwald in reaction to the latest events. And that is the exact reason why I still feel some slight gratitude for the man who only slightly missed my mother's life.


	5. Fourth Chapter: Orange

**Fourth Chapter – Orange**

* * *

><p><em>Fresno, Fresno County, Duchy of California, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_4th of April 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>The Pan-Britannica flight supposed to bring me from New Haven Shire to Fresno County, California, had a capacity of just under thirty passengers; it was small, white and not even seated half.<p>

There were ten rows: to the left and right of the aisle were two respectively one uncomfortable, narrow seats with grey covers each. I sat – surprisingly I still remember perfectly – in the third row, to the very left at the window.

Aboard were: half a dozen business travellers in unremarkable grey suits with unremarkable grey cases, unremarkable grey notebooks and extremely remarkable grey sweat-stains under their armpits. Two married couples, one young and doting, the other weary, dull and unnerved. Three little children between five and ten years, seemingly those of the second couple, making a lot of noise and generally being annoying. Furthermore two pilots, a bored stewardess and a boy of perhaps 14 years in a simple black suit that travelled alone, thoughtfully stared out of the window and constantly parried all efforts of the gentleman next to him to make conversation – Alexander Lamperouge, who most definitely was _not _the Crown Prince of the Holy Britannian Empire. Me.

I looked out of the window. Below us fields, houses, mountains moved as if not we, but they were flying.

The plane approached to land; the gentlemen next to me fastened his seatbelt – mine already was.

"Nice fly, wasn't it?," he made one last attempt at being polite.

I silently nodded and he turned away, slightly offended.

Ten minutes later the plane had halted at the end of the runway. We got off.

There was no shuttle or gangway to the tiny airport's single terminal in the outskirts of Fresno. I simply walked down a staircase to the hot, sun-lit asphalt of the runway and joined three other passengers waiting for their luggage at the plane's tail. I sheltered my eyes against the sun and searching (for what?) looked around.

The airport was tiny in every sense of the word. The town of Fresno also had – or so I had heard – a bigger, interareal airport, but this one was barely more than a runway. There was a rusted hangar, a low control tower and a relatively modern single-story reception building. Upon all the sun burned down.

I recovered my suitcase and then walked the roughly hundred meters to the building. There were no security checks; the two counters of Pan-Britannica Airlines were unoccupied. On a stainless steel planter containing a puny palm leaned a tall man scrolling through a newspaper so that I couldn't see his face. Nobody seemed to notice him.

The businessmen and the young couple hurried to the handful cabs by the entrance. There was some whining from the children, then they and their parents left as well. I approached the man with the newspaper. He looked up from his read (the _Pendragon Herald _from the day before yesterday, I noticed), smiled at me and I found myself quite startled.

The man's face might have been very handsome once, but now the looks of the spectator were attracted by the golden plate where his left eye should have been. It was richly ornamented and formed like a raven's wing, but the flesh on its borders was red as with heavy burnings.

He smiled, somehow I knew his face.

"Are you …," I dared ask, "are you Lord Gottwald?"

"Indeed I am," the Knight of One answered, bowing gallantly. His voice was deep, calm and smooth. "Welcome to California. Wholly at your service."

I nodded. Gottwald refolded his newspaper, took my bag from my hand and guided me through the main entrance's glass doors outside to his car – the old, blue pick-up stood in a No Parking zone and two tickets were clipped under the windscreen wiper. Gottwald carelessly took them and threw them to the ground. My bag he put in the loading area between crates of oranges and shopping bags, then he opened the passenger door and asked me to get in.

I did. We moved off.

"My plantation's quite a bit away," Gottwald cheerfully explained to me. "And in fact not entirely fit for a Prince of the Imperial Blood, but probably the safest place of all Britannia."

I nodded. Gottwald looked at me, frowning, then turned his gaze to the road again (his driving style was, to put it mildly, aggressive) and shrugged.

On the other hand it might be smarter to get to know my host for the next year.

"How comes," I thus said after a while, "that you quit to grow oranges?"

Gottwald laughed. "Oh, I haven't been in a Knightmare for 14 years … it's a small wonder Her Majesty has not yet replaced me with someone more capable." He paused, drove away a minivan and accelerated. "In fact, I would have liked to remain in service," he then said, "but as the Knight of One I'd have been in the spotlights. In the new capital there were too many new faces, too many enemies. I had sworn to serve her family many times before, but Her Majesty convinced me to leave. So I began to grow oranges. When I took my leave shortly before the coronation of your mother ..."

I interrupted him. Had I perhaps misunderstood? Could it even be _possible_? No, it had to be. "You … you served Lelouch?"

Suddenly I remembered where I knew his face from: from a photo in a history book on which he had been depicted together with the traitor Kururugi and the Demon Lelouch.

Gottwald gave me a scrutinising look and I quickly averted my gaze. What would he do, now that I had seen through him?

Yet he merely said: "Yes. I was the Knight of One to His Majesty."

Pardon me, I forgot. To understand my concerns, one has to understand who Lelouch was to us. Today his image has dissolved in the collective memories of the Britannians – the children of the South know him as a grand hero, a demi-god, and even those of the North don't know what to think any more.

In the year 2033 Emperor Lelouch was considered the very personification of Evil by the great majority of humans on our planet safe for some radicals and the heads of the rebellious South. I alike had been taught that Lelouch had been a half-crazy tyrant that had suppressed and countless times humiliated both Lords and commoners, that had gambled Britannia's might away, that had treated all humans alike – as slaves. He had bloodily suppressed all opposition, had had captured rebels and criminals be tortured and executed for his amusement and ordered gory massacres far surpassing the madness of the Princess Euphemia. Again and again one had warned me to become like he; one had made it clear that I could be more than glad that his black blood was not in me.

For the rest of the ride both of us kept silent. Gottwald turned on the radio; I expected country, it was classic.

We reached the farm, drove towards a large white timber house at the end of an alley lined with orange trees.

"Welcome to my humble plantation, my lord." Then he reached out his hand. "By the way, please call me Jeremiah."

For a moment I carefully observed his large hand. Then I shook it. "Faramond."

From the radio sounded Mozart's Requiem mass in d-minor and we got out.

* * *

><p>The house's set-up was simple: two stories; from a hallway doors led to a parlour, dining room, kitchen, a guest's bathroom and Jeremiah's study. A wooden staircase led up to the upper story. The furnishing was elegant and expensive, yet rustic. It could have been a normal house if not for the framed photo on a mahogany sideboard depicting Lord Jeremiah with Lelouch and Kururugi – the same picture as in the book; the portrait on the occasion of the official knighting ceremony. I shuddered; it frightened me how it stood there between the picture of a smiling young girl with Jeremiah's nose and eyes that probably was his sister and the depiction of a young man with blond locks and a sly grin on his face – Lord Weinberg, but obviously an older portrait.<p>

Whilst I stood in the entrance looking around, Jeremiah put down my suitcase and called upstairs: "Anya? Anya, we're back!"

A young, petite lady appeared on the staircase. Her hair and clothes were bright pink, her eyes deep red. In her right hand she held a mobile. Shortly she looked up from it, stared at me from cold, completely expressionless eyes without even blinking. For a moment I opposed her gaze, then I averted mine.

"Hello," she deadpanned, then she disappeared upstairs.

Jeremiah sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fourteen years she's been living here and is still as uncommunicative as on day one. At first I thought she would slowly open up, but it seems she then decided that she urgently had to catch up on her puberty. My lord … Faramond, that is – was – Lady Anya Alstreim, Knight of Six."

The … Knight of Six? Who would have thought of that? I had never known where Lady Alstreim had disappeared to shortly after my birth; but I certainly would never have guessed that she and Lelouch's Knight of One lived under one roof. Hadn't she even fought on Schneizel's side in the Battle of Mount Fuji? And hadn't she been a prisoner at that gruesome parade at which Lelouch had wanted to celebrate his triumph over his enemies until fate had gotten to him?

_But then why would Anya Alstreim live together with Jeremiah Gottwald?_

I doubted that it was a case of Stockholm syndrome, but who was I to judge?

Jeremiah led me up to the upper story. The sunlit hallway bordered, as he quickly explained, Anya's, his and the room that I should move in – all with a separate bathroom – as well as another, currently empty guest room.

All the rooms were full of books, even in the hallway were shelves. I skimmed through the titles, yet failed to discover an order – agronomy, chess books, scientific treatises, historiographies, classics of literature from Homer till today and a small _Dictionary of Eleven Street Jargon_ that was used and could not have costed more than three pounds stood wildly mixed up. There was an _Encyclopædia Britannica _in 85 volumes, from A to Nabadwip in shelf one, from Nabataean Kingdom to Z in the second shelf. There was a two-volume history of sugar, an illustrated dictionary of literal Bengali and a three-volume overview on London doorknobs (with supplement). I randomly took out a book – A. Roemer, _Aristarchs Athetesen in der frühen Homerkritik_, Leipzig 1902 AD – and opened it. I did not know any German, Jeremiah seemingly did, for many spots were marked or commented. It seemed as though Jeremiah had been very much indignant at the theories of A. Roemer; one of the notes read: _What did that guy even THINK OF? Anyone who'd think for only two seconds would notice the error; how can one write an entire scholarly treatise without even thinking for two seconds?_

I put the book back to the shelf. _This _was the house of Lelouch's servant, the Knight of One Jeremiah Gottwald?

Jeremiah had patiently waited the whole time, my bag in his hands. When I joined up to him again, he opened the guest room's door and let me enter. The room was not big, but sufficiently so, there was a comfortable looking broad bed, a night stand, desk and chair. Here as well a whole wall was taken up by bookshelves. The room was bathed in warm sunlight – it was almost evening – through two big windows; a door led to the bathroom. A closet, paper and such in a drawer of the desk. Lots of wood, a crème coloured fluffy carpet.

Jeremiah left the room and I began to unpack.

* * *

><p>After dinner – Anya ate in her room; Jeremiah had casually prepared <em>Soupe au Pistou<em>, then _Carnard à l'Orange_ and an orange mousse (he seemed to have quite an obsession with those fruits) –Jeremiah asked me into his study. I should wait for him there whilst he quickly did the dishes. I entered his office.

The room was quite small, about as large as mine above. A thick Persian carpet on the parquet, wooden panelling and bookshelves on the walls. A massive desk of red oakwood.

On the wall to the right, however, hang, gold-framed, a life-sized replica of Lelouch's official coronation portrait. There stood the Demon, proudly in ermine and white and scarlet, his right hand resting lightly on the realm's Imperial Crown on a table next to him, in his left he held a broad, golden sword. Along the fuller of the weapon was embedded amethyst marquetry, I had a closer look to decipher the inscription.

On the versions of the portrait I knew it was a simple, undecorated sword, wasn't it? Most certainly no golden blade. The engraving read _REQUIEM ÆTERNAM DONA EIS, DOMINE, ET LUX PERPETUA LUCEAT EIS._ Grant them eternal rest, Lord, and may eternal light shine them.

I shivered, averted my gaze and instead went on to enquire the books in the shelves. Two thick volumes stood out and I took the second one, read the title. _Ptolemaic Alexandria – Supplement_, by Frazer. I randomly opened the book in its centre and read an Ancient Greek tragedy on God and Moses (from the point where God in iambic pentameters says, "Reach out thy rod"), then I scrolled on a few pages to find myself in an Alexandrian poem on Cassandra of Troy – Lykophrast's _Alexandra –_ that made so little sense that the scholars argued whether this was due to later corruption or due to the prophetic delusion of Cassandra (as the footnote of a footnote kindly informed). I suddenly remembered that Cleopatra VII had been called "Philopator" and the she had first married and then had killed her brother Ptolemy XIV. I simply did not know yet what to do with that information.

Jeremiah entered and closed the door behind him. I put back the book.

"Sit," he said and took place behind the desk. I sat on one of the chairs in front of it. Only now I noticed that atop the desk was a beautifully crafted set of chess.

"You play chess?," he made sure. I nodded. My host placed a chess clock next to the board and set the time.

"Ten minutes. Five minutes each."

"I don't play that way," I answered. I had always been taught that chess, like all art, took its time. _Perhaps no extensive and multifarious performance was ever effected within the term originally fixed in the undertaker's mind. He that runs against Time, has an antagonist not subject to casualties._

And thus we played, I had white. Pe2-e4, Pc7-c5.

I knew many responses to the Sicilian Defence but the question was what could be developed in the time available, still pondering this question I had not even moved my Knight to f3 when the timer went off. Thereafter I moved my Knight to f3 and Jeremiah said: "Sorry. Game's over."

I blushed and stammered something, but in the meantime Jeremiah had moved all the pieces back and turned the clock and this time he was white, e2-e4.

I – the faithful disciple of Schneizel – liked the Sicilian Defence myself but debating inwardly the merits of the Najdorf Variation, the Scheveningen (which I had always wanted to try out), the Nimzowitsch and others to numerous to mention I nearly made the same mistake. But then suddenly I pulled myself together (c7-c5) and I managed to make ten moves before falling again into deep thought interrupted only by the timer.

I reached my tenth move and the timer went off before I had moved a piece. Jeremiah moved the pieces back again and started the clock.

By now I was really furious. Jeremiah might be a strong player, as I had seen, but I was strong as well. Schneizel had downright drilled me, had humiliated me again and again to teach me. And now it was not even he, but Jeremiah Gottwald to wake ardent ambition in me. I made my first move and Jeremiah made his and this time I made a move the instant it was my turn and he won in 25 moves.

I put the pieces back and Jeremiah said he had work to do and I answered that this wouldn't take long. I was black. This time I played the defence I knew the best, and I played a version of the middle game I had read in Keres & Kotov, and the end played itself.

"Checkmate," I said. "I know what you think you're doing, but it's stupid. It's not the same."

And Jeremiah answered: "It's a game. It's a stupid game, go for Go, the game of the Japanese, for a challenge. Opening, middle game, endgame. Opening, middle game, endgame. Let's set the clock to five minutes."

We played five games of which I won four.

We played until 2:00 in the morning. I kept saying, "It's not the same", but I was smiling now because I was winning most of the time.

We played another game. The clock was on two-and-a-half minutes per player and thus we blitzed as I had never done before – not with Schneizel. I moved my Knight, check and mate.

"Hmm, I guess you've got me there," Jeremiah laughed, but then looked at the board again. His index finger touched the tip of his King and I expected him to knock it over. Instead of that, though, he moved it one field forwards … directly in front of my own King.

I looked up at him, his face was an unreadable mask. The move was illegal, why had Jeremiah done it? Then I looked down on the board again. Jeremiah expected a response – he would not have played Ke2-e3 otherwise. "Zugzwang, my lord," Jeremiah calmly said. He was giving me the choice; was he still trying to proof that it _was _indeed the same (which it obviously wasn't)?

Now, what were my options?

I could move forth my King – or any other of my checking pieces including the Knight, for that matter – and take his King off the board. Or I could ignore the game's goal and move away my own King (which was, after all, standing in check himself) whilst losing my positional and material advantage.

One is tempted to think that this was no choice at all, but when I was just about to slay his King, I hesitated. For some reason I felt utterly reluctant to take this sacrifice – Jeremiah was a great player, it was definitely below him to offer his King in such a way. Also I had not fought for it – the game might have been in mate before, but now the second option would lengthen it and give him another fair chance at victory.

Ke4-Kf5.

Jeremiah laughed. "I did not expect to ever see that again. But … it seems, Faramond, that you are far more similar to _Him _than you think."

"Him?," I confusedly enquired. The Knight smiled and perhaps even was going to answer me.

A knock on the door. Anya in a (pink) nightgown. "Please be quiet," she deadpanned, "I'm trying to sleep here." Then she disappeared again without waiting for a response.

Jeremiah sighed and massaged his temples. "At least," he groaned, "she knocked. And said 'please'. But she's right, let's go to sleep. Tomorrow … today we can play again."


	6. Fifth Chapter: Enter

**Fifth Chapter – Enter**

* * *

><p><em>Floyd, Fresno County, Duchy of California, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_26th of July 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>When they had told me I would spent the next months on Lord Gottwald's orange plantation, I had not even thought of the absurd idea that I would indeed <em>work<em>. It just did not … befit me to perform mean chores – and now I stood here between high trees with branches heavy from fruit and harvested oranges. And I _liked _it – there was something refreshing about doing something simple and true, about forgetting for a while who I was.

Of course Jeremiah had never asked me to help him and Anya, but when I had seen the two going to work the first morning, I felt guilty. Surely, both had sworn oaths to Britannia and my family, but what right did I have to live from their labour's fruits (ha, ha.) like a parasite?

And thus I went out and offered my help. I am certain that Jeremiah would never admit it, but he did seem quite pleased and relieved to have another helper – and especially someone to talk to; Anya only spoke if she couldn't avoid it –, for it was harvest time. And so I stood (I think I repeat myself) between high trees with branches heavy from fruit in the blazing Californian sun and harvested oranges. Jeremiah was a few metres to my right on another tree; he was humming an unsteady melody whilst examining the fruits, gathering the ripe ones. Anya had withdrawn to another part of the vast plantation.

Jeremiah interrupted his melody and looked at me, an orange in hand. "You know," he thoughtfully began, "the knight of your aunt, Cornelia, once gave me a choice – either I would be executed as a traitor, or so he threatened me, or spend my life growing oranges. That was shortly after the incident at which Zero made his début, and thus a great insult implicating that I collaborated with terrorists." He quietly laughed. "In the end Lord Guilford was right. Indeed I worked under Zero and fought alongside the Black Knights in the Second Battle of Tokyo, left the Order then, though, to serve a liege far greater. He gave me this plantation as a sign of His appreciation and with the sarcasm so typical for Him … 'Orange' was no longer an insult, but a badge of honour."

He was silent, nostalgically looked to the distance. "You mean … when you speak of this 'liege far greater', you mean Lelouch, don't you? Why do you tell me that?" That should be, why did he tell me – an Imperial Prince – something which could be taken as treason and incitement to insurgence? As apotheosis of the demon? I _did simply not understand_. Up until now I had only seen Jeremiah as a man who was considerate, polite, intelligent, slightly crazy and completely loyal to the Crown; as expected from a Knight of One. How could he then talk so easily about his connection to the Demon?

Jeremiah seemed to have read my thoughts, for he responded: "Not anything is how it seems, Faramond. A demon might be an angel and an angel a demon, but a demon can also be a demon. If you truly desire to know the answer to your question, look above." – and took his crate of oranges and left.

Confusedly I looked after him. I should look above? … well then. I shrugged and turned my gaze to the sky. A few birds, the green tree tops of the orange trees. The blazing sun. Blue sky, one or two small cloudlets. The house, four windows below the roof. Even more orange trees – wait. Again I looked at the house, something had caught my eye. But what?

A normal house. I could only see the upper story over the treetops. Wood, lightly painted … somewhat cream-coloured. The roof was completely normal as well, dark tiles and a chimney. Four windows, two to the left belonging to my room and two to the right which were probably of Anya's bath – between those, four metres of blank wall without a single window where the empty guest room was.

A guest room without a single window? Every other room of the house was always filled with sunlight. It seemed most strange to me that this peculiar room should have none.

Thoughtfully I gathered three oranges from the tree and put them in the crate. The question was – why? Why had one built this room without a window, what reason could there be?

I noticed that I had so far never entered the empty guest room. Why?

I kept thinking about the room for quite a while, but in the end I only reasoned that I would have to enter it in order to lift its secret. What might be in it? Well, probably it had to do something with Lelouch. _He _had, after all, personally had this house built; and just what kind of secret could Lord Jeremiah have – other than his past as a servant of Emperor Lelouch? I decided to examine the room later – of course without informing Jeremiah. He might speak very openly about that, but perhaps the mystery inside the empty room was enough to make even a Knight of One fall?

On the other hand, I probably had just gotten caught up in nothing – just what proof did I have? A room without a window was no evidence for dark intrigues. Still – something told me that something was rotten in the state of Denmark.

I took a decision, there under orange trees and bright blue sky – I would enter the room and leave nothing undone in order to unveil its secret.

* * *

><p>Tonight at 9 <em>Lost <em>was on the BBC again.

Jeremiah watched intrigued. I read _The Eskimo Book of Knowledge _(George Binney, Pendragon, 1976), trying to teach myself Inuktituk.

_Taimaimat kanimajut âniasiortauningine maligaksat sivorlerpângat imaipok: ANIASIORTIB PERKOJANGIT NALETSIARLUGIT._

_The first rule in curing sickness or injury is: TO OBEY THE INSTRUCTIONS OF THE WHITE MAN. _

The title "1001 things not to say when Inuit can hear you" would have been more fitting.

I looked up at the screen. The Iraqi named Sayid and the one Jeremiah had called Desmond had just exposed another man – I did not know him – as a spy. I did not really understand why. Jeremiah's explanations of the series' plot had been rather … detailed. I guess one had to be there. Now and then Jeremiah took some notes on his popcorn or ate a piece of paper without looking up from the screen – wait …

_As there are many different races, so there are many different rulers, but the greatest ruler of all, who governs with justice White Men, Brown Men and Black Men in very many countries, is _Emperor Richard_, the ruler of the Britannian Empire. He is your king._

Which the book gave as:

_Sorlo inôkatigêksoakarjimat unuktunik adsigêngitunik taimaktauk atanekarpok unuktunik adsigêngitunik, anginerpaujorle taimanit, idluartomik ataniortok inungnik kakortanik kernângajunglio kernertanglio, tagva atanek Richard, ataniojok Britannishit atanioviksoanganut. Tâmna atanerivase._

That'd make us popular.

With five or six dramatic notes the episode went into a commercial break and Jeremiah looked up. Slightly bewildered he noticed the scribbled popcorn and the small scraps of paper on the table before him, then he laughed and looked to me.

"What are you reading?," he asked. I handed him the book – I had taken it from one of the shelves in my room. Jeremiah skimmed through a few pages and then read to me. "_... as soon as it pleased White damsels to adorn their necks and shoulders with the soft white fur of the fox, then there were many young men eager to make glad the hearts (and the vanity) of their damsels with gifts of white fox skins; and when their wives were sad, husbands learned to make them happy with gifts of white fox-skins _… why, that's marvellous. When was it published?"

"1976 imperial," I responded.

"1976," Jeremiah said, "And this is, let's see ..."

"2033."

"2033, so that's 57 years, and in 57 years it will be …"

"2090."

"2090. Exactly. Just think, Faramond, in 2090 people will probably consider it absolutely BARBARIC that a child should be condemned to work 12 years without pay in absolute economic subjection to adults into whose keeping fate has consigned it and BARBARIC that people should be brought into the world into circumstances they did not choose and then COMPELLED to remain REGARDLESS and they will not know which is more surprising, the absolute SILENCE on these subjects at the present time or the absolute RUBBISH routinely published on the subject of marriage between members of the same sex in those IDiot's papers which PURPORTS to–"

The commercials were over. Jeremiah interrupted his upset monologue, put down the book and sat down again.

"I'll be upstairs," I said, but Jeremiah did not seem to listen. Probably he already was on a deserted island in the southern Pacific and hunted wild boars.

Now there I was – a long, narrow room – a hallway. At one end windows, the stairway was warmly lit from the evening sun. On the opposite wall hang a group of four paintings, very modern, blood red footprints on square white paper – the artist had, or so I had heard, filled the blood of lambs in a bathtub, then taken a bath in it; then he had walked to his atelier over sheets of white paper, repeated it several times, diluting the blood with water in the process, and sold the first set of bloody canvas for 250,000 pound sterling. The general consensus at the end of the day was that the most interesting pieces were the later ones, when the blood was drying, or when it was diluted with water, and such were those here on the wall.

Bookshelves to both sides. The Britannica grimly looked down at me.

I went past my room to the mysterious door – in fact a normal door, light wood, handle and keyhole were brazen. I took the handle and pressed it down and saw … nothing.

The door was locked.

Again I joggled the door handle, but naturally nothing happened. I should have known. On the other hand this seemed to confirm my suspicion, didn't it?

I began to walk up and down the hallway. Sure enough I was as good as certain that there was some kind of secret behind this door, and just as certain that I would have to solve it. I calmed down enough to do some reasoning. Of course it was no option to break open the door using force and I doubted that I'd be able to knack the lock within the next six months – without Jeremiah noticing.

What were my options, then?

Without a doubt Jeremiah (or Anya, for that matter) would enter the room once in a while. Maybe I would then be able to get a few looks inside? I would have to be wary. An opportunity would come.

I went down to the living room.

Jeremiah just turned off the TV. Slightly irritated he looked at me, then he took the _Eskimo Book of Knowledge _from the coffee table.

He skimmed through it, I sat opposite to him. Leaning heavily on the couch and looking down at _The Eskimo Book of Knowledge _he said after a pause with a gallant effort:

"Ah, but what a marvellous language. Let's see, _kakortarsu _is obviously the white fox so we've got _kakortarsu kakortasuk kakortarsungnik kakortarsuit _and then there's _puije _and _puijit _for seal further up the page. It looks like _puije _is the accusative _puijit _is the nominative, which would make _kakortarsuit _nominative _piojorniningillo _is vanity on the previous page. We seem to have _puijevinit _seal meat – _puijevinekarnersaularposelo _you shall also gain a greater supply of seal meat; oh, I've always wanted to learn an agglutinative language."

I laughed. "Four's not enough?"

"Oh, my prince, I feel like learning another. It's wonderful to think of a language like this in _daily use_." He said: "I wonder what the Inuit would be for _veritable cathedral of ice_!"

He continued through the book. Now and then he would read an interesting sentence; once I could only barely keep him from singing _God Save the King _in the Inuit (Gûbid saimarliuk / Adanterijavut …).

Finally, Jeremiah had long since wholly disappeared in the book and I doubted he would care for my presence or lack of it, I rose and was about to leave. He did in fact not notice. Yet then, when I wanted to leave the room, I heard him mutter something, more to himself:

"I think _He _would have enjoyed this."

I paled, left the room and went upstairs.

* * *

><p><em>Ibidem <em>

_5th of August 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>"Check and mate," I finally said and put aside the pieces.<p>

We sat, as every evening (except for the Thursdays, of course, for then the BBC would show _Lost_), in Jeremiah's study and played chess. I won nine out of ten; but we blitzed.

"You're right," he said, thoughtfully massaging his temples. He pointed to the board. "I knew I shouldn't have captured your Rook there, but I couldn't resist … well then. Good night, but I think I'm gonna need a Scotch."

I laughed. We put aside the pieces, I wished him a good night and went upstairs. Leaving the office the Demon's portrait seemed to follow me with ardent eyes. My head ached, and the damned door still would not open.

I went to my room. When I was just about to brush my teeth and go to bed, I noticed Rosenberg's _The Solid State _lying on my desk unappreciated and open. Thus I sat down, read a few lines and tried to think about the Umklapp process – that is, I thought about the Umklapp process as good as one can if one only has "few basic knowledge of mechanics, electricity and magnetism as well as nuclear physics and a relatively intuitive idea of quantum physics". It seemed that Jeremiah was one of those people for whom something being hard is no reason to discontinue studying it as long as it's not boring, for the book had obviously been read many times before and annotated.

There I heard steps on the floor – heavy, confident steps, obviously Jeremiah. I was slightly surprised, he had not seemed to me as if he would go to sleep already – but then I heard a metallic sound and the slight creaking of a door. Again steps, again creaking.

Jeremiah had entered the locked room!

I put aside my book and sneaked to the hallway. Indeed, under the door there was light.

I waited, unsure what to do. How long would I have to wait for Jeremiah's return? What should I do if he found me here?

I waited, now and then throwing a glance (or two or three) in one of the countless books from the shelves.

I waited for an hour.

But then, as I was on the verge of going back to my room, I heard steps behind the door. Quickly I closed the book in my hand, jumped up.

The handle was pressed down, the door opened and Jeremiah stood before me.

He had stiffened, me as well.

"What … what are you doing here?," he finally asked carefully. I showed him the book. "I was just about to put it back."

My host silenced. His broad figure completely blocked my view to the room behind him. Then – "Yes … yes, of course. Pardon me." He closed the door again and entered his own room without another word.

Only when the door had closed after him I relaxed again. Nonetheless I slowly counted up to fifty until I approached the mysterious door again.

Jeremiah had forgotten to lock it.

I pressed down the handle, opened the door and entered the completely dark room. My right hand searched for a light switch on the wall, found none, found one and lit the room in the weak light of a single bulb.

The chamber was completely empty.

On the parquet lay a thick layer of dust, other than that the room of about five time four metres was indeed _completely empty_, in the sense of without contents. There was a door, no windows.

The door I closed behind me, examined it as well. Nowhere was anything suspicious to see. How could Jeremiah have spent a whole hour in here?

Wait. If Jeremiah had been in here, he must had left traces – but even after some examination of the room I only noticed a smooth layer of dust. Thus I laid down to the dusty floor, looking around. Indeed! There were spots at which the layer was far less thick than else. I quickly stood up again and went to the door. Now that I knew what to look for I saw the path in the dust almost immediately and followed it – a straight path from the door. Four meters, then I stood against the wall.

_The trail disappeared in the wall._

Now I had, due to a lack of same-aged acquaintances, always read a lot; and amongst the books I had read were several of the horror stories of England's and Britannia's early 20th century. They were crawling with old manors, ghosts of virgins and hanged convicts and – with secret portals.

The wall panelling was very simple, rectangular and unimaginative cassettes of light wood. I examined them. Nothing.

Only when I carefully palpated the wall I noticed the tiny notch. It showed a coat of arms unfamiliar to me – party per fess, something with droplets, a dove and sun and a sword issuant in base.

It was hidden in the cassettes of the panelling at breast-height, and thus I pressed against it.

Nothing.

Disappointedly I stepped back. If not that, then what was special about this room?

But then I heads a creaking, a crunch. Two of the panels had sunken into the wall a few centimetres! So I _had _found something. The question was what.

After some time I finally managed to find the mechanism to further move the panels. In the end it was quite simply: one only had to press them further in and then to the right. A first resistance was quickly overcome and I looked into a second, smaller chamber.

The room was not lit and my eyes first had to get used to the darkness. No windows or furnishings here as well … I did not know what I had expected. Treasures? Dark secrets neatly written in leather-bound notes?

Yet then I discovered something in the smaller room – a hole in the floor; no … that was a _spiral stair downwards_.

In that moment I head the sound of a key being turned in the lock. Jeremiah … Jeremiah had locked me up!

I was trapped.

Now I could only move forth.


	7. Sixth Chapter: In nomine Daemoni

**Sixth Chapter – In nomine Dæmoni**

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><p><em>Floyd, Fresno County, Duchy of California, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_26th of July 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>The staircase was surprisingly long.<p>

There was no source of light and thus I had to feel my way around on the railing. Just how far below ground was I? I had the unpleasant feeling that the secret awaiting me at the bottom of this staircase was bigger than anything I could ever expect.

Suddenly my feet found no further steps. Had I reached the ground of this well-like staircase? I could not see a thing in the profound darkness surrounding me, so I reached out my arms, searching for something. The stair's wooden newel to my left, the concrete wall to my right – and cold steel directly in front of me. I knocked against it. It sounded hollow; the metallic sound echoed even louder in the deep, narrow well.

A door? Frenetic I searched for a handle of sorts (for there was no way back now), found none – but then I held a simple steel door handle in my hand. I opened the door without much of a effort, then had to shield my aching eyes that had spent too much time in the dark against the bright flare lighting the room.

Almost half a minute I stood there on the stair, waiting for my eyes getting used to the light again. Then, when I could perceive something again, I entered and looked around astonished.

The room was furnished Spartan at most, yet spectacular. It was sized around five times five metres, but high above my head in five meters height alike a ribbed vault like a medieval cathedral's nave seemed to levitate. Everything consisted entirely out of glaring white marble. In the centre of the hall was a grand, perfectly circular fountain of dark granite.

Who built such a thing?, I wondered incredulous. A dozen meters or more below the ground, directly under an orange plantation?

Then I noticed the doors; there were four of them. The one through which I had entered, two white, wooden double doors to the right and left which seemed to be locked, and a huge portal with heavy, dark wooden doors, richly decorated with carvings – all kinds of plants, geometric patterns, coats of arms and scenes from Britannian history – and those went up almost to the ceiling vault. They were ajar.

I walked around the fountain to examine the portal. I could not look through the gap, the doors were too thick for that, but perhaps I could open one of them?

I could, it was surprisingly easy. It seemed as though they were opened regularly.

Eventually I had opened one of the wings far enough to slip through – and once again stood in the darkness of a giant room of black marble.

The door behind me thud shut. Now however I could perceive one – no, two – small and weak sources of light in about fifty metres distance. Carefully I approached them, but I soon found that I could not miss the way – I walked on a thick rug laid out dead straight on the cool black marble and only had to follow it.

When I approached the lights I recognised what they were – two tall, thick candles on a vast and massive block of bright white marble.

An … altar? So this hall was some kind of cathedral?

Now I stepped closer, putting my hand on this altar. In the candles' light I examined it: a simple, undecorated block of marble. On it, though, was a cloth of black velvet, about a meter long when put together as it was. No, wait – on second view I saw three golden cords and atop of it something which looked a lot like a leathern mask. So then it was … a kind of garment?

I ran my hand through the cloth and almost immediately noticed something hard wrapped in it. I pulled up on of the two candles and opened the bundle.

In the soft bed of a jet black cloak was a sword.

It was inside a splendid black-leathern sheath decorated with silver marquetry, the sword belt beside it. The hilt was entirely of ebony, the pommel was inscribed with the same coat of arms as one the door above set in silver.

Carefully, my hands trembling, I took the hilt and unsheathed the sword. It was quite heavy – I duly admired the blade. It was perfectly smooth, the stainless steel polished and sharp. Then I turned around the blade – and tensed.

There, on the fuller, were engraved letters, words – words I already knew from a certain painting in Jeremiah's office. They read _REQUIEM ÆTERNAM DONA EIS DOMINE ET LUX PERPETUA LUCEAT EIS_. The words on Lelouch's sword. Grant them eternal rest, oh Lord, and may eternal light shine them. The introduction of the requiem mass.

For a moment I just stood there, unsure of what to do, the sword in my hand, but then I sheathed it again and put it back to the altar. Instead I took one of the candles and began to explore the hall walking along its walls.

I did not discover much. The room – the chapel – was about a hundred metres long and fifty metres wide. The altar seemed to be at the exact centre of that and thus was fifty meters from the door (this sheet of paper sadly is not sufficient to illustrate those measurements. I would kindly recommend you to go to a local gym. But on the other hand you who shall read this already know about this place, don't you?). I did not know if there was a vault as in the vestibule as the light of my candle only illuminated a few meters. But then I noticed something I had missed before: the wall opposite to the door felt different. It was far rougher than the smooth, cool marble walls. When I held the candle closer, I perceived colours – a lot of gold, some brown and a little green – and obscure structures which I could not decipher from this close. A mosaic, it seemed.

I wondered how to light it enough to perceive something. There had to be some possibility; perhaps there was … a light switch?

For now I turned to the altar again, went towards the weak light of the other candle – and bumped against a waist-high wall half the way. My right hand accidentally dipped in some cool liquid. In the light of my candle I irritatedly examined the wall – the basin. I recognised a familiar scent. It took me but a moment to remember, what it meant: I knew this scent from the scarce teaching in natural sciences I had been given. That was … hexane? And hexane was used as lamp oil occasionally.

I first looked at my candle, then on that on the altar. Then I shrugged, carefully moved my candle's flame to the liquid's surface – and backed off with a surprised outcry when out of a sudden darting flames emerged. Now the fire quickly spread across the whole length of the surface and quickly the hexane burned, calm and bright.

Now that I had light I turned back to the fresco on the front wall, which I could no perceive perfectly clear.

It was vast indeed and took up the entire wall. They had lavishly used gold colour and jewels like on a Byzantine icon, so that the entire mosaic sparkled and glowed mysteriously. Along its entire width on its upper and lower border the Latin introit of the mass for the dead was given in palm-sized golden letters – _Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine / Et lux perpetua luceat eis / Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion / Et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem / Exaudi orationem meam / Ad te omnis caro veniet / Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine …_ I shuddered, momentarily was glad to be a member of the Britannic-Anglican church as the heir of the House of Britannia-Tudor.

What really frightened me and caught my eye first, though, was not the text, but the rest of the mural:

On a rock, in front of a bright golden background of clouds and pure light stood none other than Lelouch in the white, jewelled robe he had made his habit. His gaze was transfigured and distantly going skywards, with his right he carelessly sheathed a flamingly golden blade. He was flanked to his right by the sitting Clio, muse of history, who clearly had the features of the Empress, my mother, and to his left by an approaching beautiful woman with … green hair?, in a simple white stole offering Lelouch the laurel wreath, thus probably depicting the goddess of victory or of peace.

Confusedly I reeled back – no wonder Jeremiah had wanted to hide a mural such as this, such a … temple of the demon. Indeed, with Empress Nunnally at her brother's side it bordered on open treason! If anyone should ever know that the Knight of One hid something like this … no. Of course nobody would know about it; the consequences were unthinkable – and probably I owed something to Jeremiah.

But then what was this gruesome mural supposed to say? Lelouch as the prince of peace? Jeremiah just _could not_ follow him this fanatically. But then what? It was completely obscure to me.

Slowly I went back around the wall of fire to the altar, put my candle down again. I decided to examine the cloak the sword had been wrapped in more closely, if just to distract me from the mosaic. But it was indeed a simple cloak with three golden cords that were probably supposed to belt it. It made me remember something, but I did not know what exactly. On the breast was embroidered a coat of arms: the same one as in the empty guest room on the wall and the sword's pommel; the shield per fess Gules and Sable, a fess Argent semy of Gouttes du sang, issuant from the fess in chief a Sun in her splendour Or, thereupon a Dove of the second carrying an olive branch Vert, in base a sword Argent hilt downwards Or. The mask was a simple, black renaissance style mask – it hid eyes, temples and nose behind black leather.

I was cold, so I got it on. It had no sleeves, but still gave more than enough freedom of movement and warmth. And, as I did not want to just let it lie there – and because I did not yet know what Jeremiah wanted to do – I also took the sword belt.

Jeremiah. He had just locked me here and now – albeit at least an hour had gone by – had not yet been done here, to do whatever he was supposed to do. Was he trying to starve me down here?

No, probably not. Jeremiah was – so much I had gathered for sure – incredibly loyal to the Crown; I was certain that this polite, educated knight (knight of Lelouch) would do me no harm. Probably he had just locked me here in the heat of the moment; certainly he was simply too embarrassed to come down here – but entering I had found the candles on the altar and the light in the antechamber burning, and on the altar had been this black cloak, the mask and especially the sword.

Had I been supposed to come down here? Had I been supposed to find all that? Had I only thought to have acted in free will – was I a mere puppet in fact?

I sat on the floor, leaning on the altar, my back to the mosaic. My hand was wrapped firmly around the sword's hilt – probably only to give me a false feeling of security; I had always been hopeless in fencing – and thus I soon fell asleep.

* * *

><p>I only awakened when the chapel was filled with ghostly whispers, footsteps and the rustling of cloth. Immediately I jumped up, put my hand to the hilt. How long had I slept?<p>

The hexane fire still lighted the horrid mosaic on the front wall, and still the two candles on the altar burned – in their shine I now perceived a group of dark, formless silhouettes.

With some effort I suppressed a scream of fear; instead unsheathed the sword to my side. If I would have to fight, I'd have no chance, but how else could I defend against those … followers of Lelouch?

I was – I got to admit it – panicking, and thus I turned to the entrance – but there as well stood a dark silhouette that was even more ghostly in the shine of the fire. Then I turned to the altar and there was another figure: the Demon on the mosaic seemed to smirk.

Slowly and completely shocked I turned around. There they stood – in two swords' length distance, one each to my right, my left, behind and in front of me – only four, but still far too many. All of them were dressed in black cloaks like mine. They as well carried swords, three of them also carried burning candles.

Overwhelmed I sank on my knees, letting my blade fall to the ground. The sound of steel on marble echoed loudly in the chapel.

But then one of them, the one that had stood at the altar and carried no candle, stepped forth. His face was masked.

He spoke. Obviously it was a man; he had a deep, beautiful voice. Jeremiah's voice.

"My Lords – my Ladies. As it is the custom, I summoned ye together here to bear witness. He who bears any oppositions against this searcher may now bring them forth to us all or be silenced for eternity."

Jeremiah paused. There was no answer.

A … searcher? He must have meant me by that. Just, what did I search for, then?

I thought of my mother. Had not aunt Cornelia said that Jeremiah was a good friend of hers and the Empress when she educated me of the decision to send me here? Then Jeremiah had to be a master of deception. A follower of the Demon as the Knight of One!

I suddenly doubted I would survive this night. Strangely this did not frighten me in the slightest: instead it filled me with a dark pleasure, no, with distanced bemusement. Come on, kill me! I've got nothing to lose; my sudden death will not touch anybody. But I have to thank you, Jeremiah, for the time at yours.

"Faramond Ichiro Alexander," the one suddenly approached me. "Art thou willing to forsake of worldly pleasures and to forget all its lies? Art thou willed to walk the shining path of knowledge?"

I wanted to give a sharp answer (as I would die nonetheless). But I couldn't … the words just wouldn't come out.

I realised that I _had to know_, whatever it was that he wanted to tell me.

In hindsight I have to laugh at that. But then it seemed to me the most important thing in the world to answer my many open question before leaving this world – was Jeremiah a follower of Lelouch indeed? What was this chapel? And … why did mother trust him? I did not even think of the most important questions – how should I, as an unknowing?

And thus I simply answered "yes". I wanted to know where this was headed.

"Very well then. Faramond Ichiro Alexander, Prince of Wales and Newfoundland, of the right imperial and royal House of Britannia-Tudor, dost thou, upon this day, pledge thy fidelity to the Holy Britannian Empire and wilt thou stand firmly as a Knight of the Order of the Zero Requiem?"

It took me a moment to understand these words. Those were … the ancient words of the ceremony of knighting! On the other hand – one could only be knighted by a superior. That could be an officer in the army or a higher noble, but an _Imperial Prince _(as I was) could only receive knighthood from the Empress herself …

I had the unpleasant feeling that Jeremiah might have turned mad. Still I answered according to the protocol with "Yes, my Lord.".

His eyes I was unable to see, but Jeremiah seemed to smile.

"Wilt thou forsake thyself and be sword and shield for the greater good?," he continued. I answered as above.

And then Jeremiah opened the black cloak he wore – below was an equally black court uniform – and unsheathed the broad sword to his side.

It was the golden blade that had pierced Lelouch. In the shine of the fire I saw stains of blood.

However, instead of killing me or at least touching my shoulders and head with the sword, he stepped to the altar and put it down. Then he turned to me again. Loudly he proclaimed to me; his deep voice echoing in the chapel.

"The 28th day of the month of September in the first and sole year of Lelouch, the two-thousand-and-eighteenth year by the ascension of His Majesty, the First Emperor Eowyn, to the Holy Britannian Throne in the city of Tokyo the last phase of a divine plan began that His Majesty the ninety-ninth Emperor Lelouch had created to unite the world and create the peace He had promised His beloved sister, Her Majesty The Empress Nunnally. In an apartment in Shinjuku, a dead man prepared himself to forsake his old self and become a dark knight of justice. On His own order he then dressed in the costume of the fallen rebel, the Black Knight's, the costume and the mask of Zero. Hence he became Lord Zero of Nowhere. And thus he confronted, as it was planned, His Majesty the Demon and slew Him, the sacrifice on the altar of peace: so that all hatred shall be united on and in the person of His Majesty, that the world shall be at peace everlasting._ And he that did it bare record, and his record is true: and he knoweth that he saith true, that ye might believe._"

I had been close to laughing out loud after hearing the first sentences. It sounded too much like childish wishful thinking … in the eyes of Lelouch's followers their lord seemed to be a sort of messiah, a demigod, that could not have been killed by a mere mortal. Thus they had invented a ridiculous story by that Lelouch had been killed by Zero at his own orders. After all it could not be possible that even the demon was just human? Q.E.D., thus it was Lelouch's plan.

But then Jeremiah had ended. Zero, the dark knight, the mysterious fury of heavens and defender of my mother was supposed to be on their side? Distinct possible from likely. Then again they had a Knight of Rounds. In any case I simply _had _to know the truth, I _had _to know whether Jeremiah could really bring Zero as a witness.

Now, however, Jeremiah took up the sword again. I still knelt before him when he vertically raised the blade and solemnly asked whether I believed.

I answered, no. I demanded proof.

Suddenly the Lelouch on the mosaic did not look all that intimidating any more.

Jeremiah was about to respond, but then behind me sounded a distorted voice, a voice known to the world. I heard heavy steps as the newcomer left the black carpet and went over the cool marble to take his place.

"I bear record."

It was the voice of Zero.

Shocked I looked over my shoulder, and indeed: there he stood, the only one not to wear a black cloak but Zero's usual cape. Mask, voice, costume, everything was right.

A phoney, a double?

Very much possible, even probable. But I would never know if I resisted, and other than that it was my best chance of survival.

"Yes, my Lord. I believe."

"Then so it be."

Jeremiah reached out the blade again; it was stained with blood. The golden sword's tip floated over my right shoulder and would furthermore touch my left and finally my temple.

"Thus I, Jeremiah Gottwald, Marquess of Reynosa, First Knight of the Round Table, do hereby dub thee a Knight of the Crown and of The Most Privy Order of the Zero Requiem in the name of the witch … and of the traitor … and of the Demon. May the secrets of the Order that have now been revealed to thee always be protected in thy hands – rise as a knight, Sir Faramond."

I rose as a knight. Jeremiah sheathed the sword and took of his mask – it was indeed Jeremiah, the golden plate was not mistakable. I turned around – the other three figures in black had as well taken of their masks; I recognised their faces!

There was … Earl Lloyd Asplund, the scientist leading the team _Camelot_ who had developed the legendary _Lancelot _as well as the more modern _Parceval –_ his former coworker, Dame Cecile Groomy, who held the highly respected Ricardean Chair of Technology at the Imperial Yale University – and Lady Sayoko Shinozaki, who was the confidant and aide-de-camp to my mother, Her Majesty the Empress. I could barely believe that persons this esteemed were members of this … Order of the Zero Requiem.

Shinozaki stepped forth, warmly smiling, and hugged me. Slightly uncomfortable I returned the gesture. "Welcome to the Order, my prince," she said, "Welcome to the centre of power."

"The … centre of power?," I confusedly asked. I felt a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder, it was Jeremiah's.

"Indeed, Faramond," he responded. "It is us, The Order of Zero Requiem, who control this realm and almost all actions of the government and of Her Majesty match with our interests, of course excepting this disastrous fratricidal war – but we didn't much of a choice on that. After all we can't just surrender Britannia and her people to this tyrant imitating Lelouch without understanding Him."

I was more than simply surprised, I was aghast. Just how was it possible that a small group such as this one had so much influence?

"That's because we are a small, completely loyal group of individuals of a high rank," Jeremiah responded when I asked him. "Besides those Ladies and Gentlemen you see here our members are Lady Kozuki, the _Red Lotus _of the Black Knights, Lady Einstein, leader of _In Vogue _who is better than her best-known invention – the FLEIJA bomb – makes one think, the Princess Cornelia herself and … your mother, Faramond. Empress Nunnally is a member of the Order. That should answer your question."

I was far too stunned to answer. With some effort I could imagine Cornelia – but the Empress? Never. Otherwise … it _did _explain why Jeremiah had been introduced to me as a good friend of hers and Cornelia – still I simply would not believe that my mother should be member of an order exalting the Demon.

Then again, had she not been the one to withdraw every year at Lelouch's death- and birthday to mourn in private and thus provoke several scandals?

Zero had not taken off his mask.

I silently turned to him. The dark knight shortly bowed his head, silent as well, but did not remove his mask. I shortly fought against the urge, then I broke eye-contact.

Jeremiah contently clapped his hands together. "Well then, Faramond. Be welcomed, for you are amongst brothers and sisters. May you always protect and honour the ideals of Lelouch and never let His holy oath to His sister be broken."

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere in the French Alps<em>

_The same time_

* * *

><p>Gently He touched her shoulders and her head with the blade's tip. She may rise.<p>

His daughter complied, closely nestling and looking up to Him.

"So then I am a knight now, _papa_? A dame of Zero Requiem?"

He chuckled deeply, kissing her on the lips. "Of course," He gently aspirated between two kisses. "Thus I told you. Would I ever lie to you?"

The girl repelled another kiss, instead putting her cheek to His chest and closing the eyes.

"Why now?," she asked her father, "When you for all these years declined to knight me?"

"For the same reason your namesake got her chance to save France," her mother explained instead without turning her eyes from the glorious, sacrosanct piece of food in front of her. "Jeanne would never have managed to convince the Dauphin, not even with her Geass, had not the English's complete victory been imminent."

Meanwhile her father was already busy caressing her neck and her décolleté. "Is that true, _papa_?," she interrupted him. She looked up to the gruesome, beautiful monumental mural of the Last Judgement on the wall; blood, screams, fear and tears. "Will we be in trouble?"

Suddenly her father got serious. He stopped kissing her, instead softly taking her chin, forcing her to look into His eyes.

"Jeanne," He said, "you are mere fifteen years old. I would never endanger you like this."

She blushed. "But … _mama_'s right, isn't she?"

Her father silenced. With his right hand He thoughtfully continued caressing her thigh, but He stared out to the night, on snow-covered mountaintops and a starlit sky through the façade of glass.

Then He said: "A tempest shall come, that is for certain. This disgusting civil war will have its consequences here as well. But … for now, don't worry, _mon chéri_. We shall have more than enough time to prepare everything."

Again He fondly smiled at His daughter, stroking her cheek with His finger. "Come," He said, "let us go to bed."

Yet Jeanne did not let Him mislead her. "But … the tempest will come for sure, isn't that so?"

Her father feinted offence. "Don't you trust me?," He asked, "Don't you believe me that I will protect you?"

Again she blushed. "I do … I do, of course. You're right – whatever may happen … as long as I'm with you – and _mama_ –, I've got no reason to be afraid." She got on her tiptoes to give Him a kiss, then she took His hand and drew Him with her. "Yes _papa_, let us go to bed. You want me, and I want you, we should just go to bed."

"Have fun," her mother mumbled when the two of them left. Then she took the last slice of pizza from the box on her lap. After the last bit she stared into space.

"Shut the hell up, Jeanne. You killed me … twice … so kindly don't _you _call me ungrateful. … No. No, I definitely won't join in with the two. _Mon Dieu_, and _you _they called _The Virgin …_"


	8. Seventh Chapter: Azure

**Seventh Chapter – Azure**

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><p><em>Near Munich, Kingdom of Bavaria<em>

_2nd Brumaire or Céleri of the Year XIII of Freedom– October 24, 1804 AD_

* * *

><p>Over the Guard's bivouac, the sun was setting.<p>

The men were tired; they had been in hot pursuit of the Austrians for days now – the cannons slowed their move, which angered him. The artillery had always been his métier, he could not accept that it should be the guns slowing him down now. On the other hand he had no choice, neither could he leave the cannons behind, nor could he mount his artillerists – he did not have enough horses to equip them and Murat's cavalry at the same time.

His guard got together, the officers gathered around him in a semicircle.

A contented smirk on his face, he raised the paper in his hand. All eyes centred on the sheet, but the writing was too small to perceive something.

"Men!," he then called. "Men, rejoice! For not only Russia, Germany, Iberia, Italy and Austria tremble before _la France_ – no! Henceforth our beloved France rules the waves as well!"

Uncomprehending gazes responded to his speech. It was well-known that France's navy, even if supported by the states of the Confédération du Rhin, Spain and Italy, was hopelessly out-gunned by the Royal Navy of Great Britain's queen, Elizabeth III. Before the Revolution, the Bourbonic navy might have been superior to the drained, disgraced fleet of the English, but since they had suffered a similar fate – too many nobles in the ranks of the sailors. Now – not France ruled the waves, but _les Anglais_.

Once again he raised the letter in his right hand.

"Just now I received a message from Cadiz, Spain. I received a message from Admiral Villeneuve!"

Some seemed to understand.

"Men – not more than three days ago his ships fought out a battle against a grand fleet of the English under Admiral Nelson. However, credit is not due to Admiral Villeneuve's tactical aptness, but more to the audacity of France's best sailors – I proclaim to you, France and Liberty won! A great fleet of the English was annihilated, its ships sunk or captured – the time of the English snakes' rule over the oceans is ended, the seas are freed from tyranny's yoke and now belong to France!"

Ear-deafening jubilation erupted. For a moment he gave his men their head and just let his eyes wander over their heads and bear-skin caps, then he raised his hand to curb their cheers.

"We might have won at sea," he continued in an adjuratory tone, "but at land France's enemies still wait to steal the glory she deserves from her and destroy our grand nation. It is now ours to defeat these foes of ours! It is yours! _Vive la France!_"

As they exclaimed "_Vive l'Empereur!,_" and, "_Vive la France!,_" he climbed down from his improvised podium and, shaking hands and accepting congratulations from generals and marshals, went back to his tent. As soon as he entered it, the uproar outside died away; the spacious tent's thick cloth walls were perfect for keeping noise and agitation outside.

Now he himself was exhausted; he had not slept a single minute for four nights and had been on the march all the time. Thus he removed his infamous grey, muddied greatcoat and threw it on the ground; a servant would take care of it. He stepped to a sideboard (just how did they _transport _such a piece of furniture across all of Europe?) and poured himself a good Italian wine from a crystal carafe.

"So? How did it go?," sounded a cool, female voice, all of a sudden. Napoleon jerked, then he put the carafe away and took up the glass. He searched for the source of the voice in the tent's half-light, then he spotted the slender figure. The woman lay on a divan (how?) and read in a book from his extensive travel library.

Napoleon leant against the sideboard, drank. "Pretty well, I think," he said. Then: "Villeneuve has defeated that _crétin _Nelson near Cadiz … no, more like the Cape of Trafalgar. The Royal Navy's shattered – according to Talleyrand's spies they had had 98 liners before the battle, now they only have 71. Against it 120 liners of us and our allies, 132 with the captured English ones. The lion's share of Great Britain's navy is bound in the colonies."

The woman gave a slight chuckle and turned a page, then she put the book away. "Villeneuve, you say? So the old fool _did _get his moment?"

"It's safe to say. I shall use the opportunity to give him a desk job as a reward. At least he can no longer harm my navy then."

Again she chuckled.

"So? What will you do now, _mon Empereur?_ The way I know you you won't just rest on your laurels."

Napoleon went to her, brushed aside a few strains of bright green hair and sat down next to his accomplice. "_Naturellement. _He who sleeps in the hour of victory shall fall." Thoughtfully he ran his fingers through her hair. "The English still are a threat. They are like a serpent that, again and again, seduces our European sister nations to uprisings against France, against me. We got to bring England under our control – if I rule England, I rule the world. But first … first of all, I have to secure the continent. Prussia has fallen, the Confederation of the Rhine has been erected, now only Austria has yet to capitulate."

C.C. laughed, light, pure and yet cool and calculating. "You think it will be this easy to defeat them? This is not some tiny German principality, it's the Empire of Austria, the armies of which furthermore have joined up with those of the Tzar. The weak might have fallen one after another before you, but those are two grand powers more than on par with France, if together."

Teasing, he bent over her and whispered in her ear. "You know my methods. Move as swift as a wind, stay as silent as forest, attack as fierce as fire, undefeatable defence like a mountain. "

"Genius is not enough. You are undoubtedly at the disadvantage."

Napoleon snarled, backed off again. She had hit a nerve. "Don't you interfere, woman. I shall come, see and as always win. You, woman, are to keep out from the men's affairs."

The witch snorted disdainfully.

"You're a macho."

"I'm a Corsican."

Suddenly she was atop of him and pressed him back into the divan's pillows.

"What kind of argument is _that?_," she amused herself, "So you admit to be a chauvinist without equal, but it's not your fault?"

"Indeed it isn't, _mademoiselle. _You won't seriously disagree with me on that point, will you? Isn't that obvious?"

She thrust her index finger at his chest. Her nail was painfully long and fierce, so that Napoleon felt it even through the uniform. "How long have we been together now? For … 17 years, aren't we?"

"Yes. I can still remember it perfectly – that was in Paris, in the _Palais Royal_. The 22nd of November of … 1787, by the old counting. I had just entered a café, as it had become cold, and then I saw you. You were very beautiful, standing there, just as young as now, but … inappropriately dressed – almost viciously, so obviously a prostitute. I addressed you, because your played shyness attracted me. I admonished you … I admonished you that you'd catch a cold. Of course you immediately understood what I took you for – perhaps that was your plan from the beginning; I never know what comes to your mind – and thus you played your game with me."

"We conversed," she continued the memory, "You were understanding, interested and polite. You asked how I had become a prostitute – so I made something up."

"You're a good liar, I've got to hand that to you."

"Always been. I took to you, so I seduced you – you were young and completely green, and no, I'm not going to ever let that rest – and then, in the morning, when you wanted to pay me ..."

"You gave it to me. Unasked, but it was a gift of the Lord. How ironic of Him to choose a witch of all people as a tool of His will."

Once again she thrust her finger into his chest. "Maybe it was a gift from hell. Be that as it may – we have known each other for 17 years. You ask if I seriously want to defy you? You, the Emperor of the French? You ought to know by now that I by principle _always _defy you."

He laughed. "Guess you're right about that. I think we had this discussion several times already, let's save our breath. We both know that I … pardon, that none of us is right."

The witch tilted her head and furrowed her beautiful brow. "Weird," she mused, "that doesn't sound like you at all,_ mon chèr Empereur_ … to give up so soon … what would Marshal Murat say, could he see his master now? … what would your dear little brother Louis say? While I'm at it, how has he been doing as King of Holland …?"

Suddenly Napoleon freed himself and now he was atop of her. Now it was he who pinned her down on the divan. The witch did not bat an eye.

"What would my beloved Josephine back home in Paris say if she could see me like this?"

She smirked and shrugged. "Dunno. She'd have me killed?"

"Sounds plausible."

With a diabolic grin the witch sat up below her partner and nestled to him.

"Now, then she better never finds out ..."

And for a short moment their lips touched.

As always when they kissed she shuddered slightly. Sure – Napoleon was handsome, was elegant, intelligent and none of those ridiculous popinjays abundant before and after the Revolution. Above all, however, he had power. He was the sovereign and master of Europe and, thus, the world. He was interesting enough to keep her entertained for a long time – the kind of genius one met only once every few centuries – and at the same time he was powerful (and ruthless) enough to finally fulfil her one true wish: to eventually be freed from this eternal hell.

They slowly parted. For a moment they just stared at each other, the witch and the emperor, then Napoleon diverted his gaze with theatrically offence. "What? That was it already? _Mio Dio_, just what have I done wrong that you punish me with such disdain?"

C.C. laughed. "Just admit it, Napoleoné. I won't hold it against you. You don't actually desire me … but only my secrets, or at best my body. Am I right?"

Suddenly Napoleon turned serious. He seemed … hurt. The Emperor of the French rose and began to march up and down in the tent.

"Is that so, C.C.?," he asked quietly, "Do you really think this badly of me?"

"No," she responded indifferently. "Worse. Don't worry, though – that's how it always was. All I ask of you – all I can ask – is that you stick to the contract and fulfil my wish. More I can not expect from you … I seem to be unlucky in love."

The witch rose from the divan and rushed by him. Just before she left the tent, he grabbed her arm.

"Where are you going?," he asked.

"Out," she brashly responded. Then she left his tent.

Napoleon looked after her.

Lost in thought he went to the commode, opened the top drawer and took out the stack of paper inside.

Thoughtfully Napoleon skimmed through the short novel he had once written, many years ago.

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><p><em>Floyd, Fresno County, Duchy of California, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_13th of September 2033 a.t.b._

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><p>In front of the house something banged. It sounded as if someone had carelessly slammed a car's door.<p>

I looked up from Schönberg's _Harmonielehre _and closed the book. Putting it aside I rose from my bed, went to the window and curiously looked outside.

In front of the patio was parked a shining black, apparently brand-new sports car. Leaning on it was a young, handsome man – no, rather a boy, around my age, it seemed. He was cheerfully chatting with Jeremiah.

As I did not deem the visitor particularly dangerous or suspicious I curiously went downstairs – the rapier to his side obviously was nothing but an accessory. I tended to carry decorative sabres as well, more out of habit and courtesy than need or inclination.

I just left the shadows of the veranda when Jeremiah noticed me.

"Ah, Faramond," he said, "Good to see you." He pointed at the boy. "Faramond – this is Lord Henry Stewart, Earl of Kate. He lives in Fresno, regularly comes here to buy oranges, though. Henry – this is Faramond Lamperouge, my nephew from the capital. He spends the year here with me." Anya appeared as if from nowhere, tipping Jeremiah on the shoulder with a deadpan mien and whispering something in his ear. Then she disappeared and the Knight of One rolled his eyes. "Excuse me. Apparently there's a problem with the watering." He followed Anya, leaving the newcomer and me alone.

I politely bowed my head as a greeting, Stewart did alike.

"So you're from the capital? From New Haven Shire?," he asked without leaving time for an awkward pause. "Never been there. How is it; is it true what they say about the palace?"

"Why, what do they say about the palace?," I immediately felt drawn to this young earl. He was – I believe this might be a good time for a closer description – about as tall as me, that is one metre seventy, very lean, but more muscular than I. His aristocratic face featured cheerful, azure blue eyes under strawberry-blonde locks; he dressed – as I would soon notice – almost exclusively in blue and white and extravagant even for someone who had grown up at court.

"Well, that it's a vast building of more than a thousand rooms, built completely of white marble and shining sandstone – that there are dozens of halls shining from mirrors or gem stones, not just the two one sees on photos."

"I'm quite afraid that's correct, my lord." On the other hand – might someone just living in the city of New Haven know even that? I had never seen tourists in the palace.

But Henry immediately asked the next question. "And the city itself? One hears that each and every street is lined with old oaks and elms, that the buildings and particularly the palaces of the dukes and archbishops are marvellous?"

Again I affirmed. "The town is splendid indeed. Without a doubt it lost much of its former beauty when the government moved there and the grey bore of a modern city came. Still, New Haven is unique on the world … there is no building, no alley, behind the creation of which is not the most careful aesthetic planning. And oh, the palace – my lord, imagine rough cliffs of white chalk steeply towering from the stormy ocean – and high above, directly at the seafront thrones like a continuation of the cliffs into the sky the palace, consisting completely out of bright white sandstone and marble and from every single window of the rear front one gazes on the Atlantic and the lost realm behind …" I had gotten into swooning, as I noticed now. Thus I merely concluded: "You'd have to see it, my lord."

Stewart, who had up to now listened eagerly, broadly grinned at me. "Hey, don't 'lord' me. We got to be about the same age. No reason to kneel." He laughed. "Also, I'm an impoverished earl from the middle of nowhere at best, _you _are from the capital."

Then he reached out his hand. "Henry."

Without hesitating, I took it. "Faramond."

"Very well then, Faramond. What brings you here? It's not one of the usual places for tourism, is it?"

"My mother …," I began, "She had an … accident in April. She's still in the hospital, so my uncle – Lord Jeremiah – offered to let me live with him." I shrugged and hoped he'd buy the story. On the other hand, why should he find parallels between me and the hurt empress? "And you, how about you? You're an earl, why not simply move to New Haven if you don't like it here? You're completely free after all."

"No man is free, my friend. Even though my father finally deceased last year, he left us nothing but a title, a house and a mountain of playing debts – New Haven is expansive, as you will know best – and my two sisters are at a boarding school in San Francisco. I can't care for them if I'm so far away."

And still – this boy that was barely older than I seemed to me the freest man in the world. Living his life seemed desirable, to be able to go freely where he wanted to – even if it was Floyd, California.

For a moment the two of us were silent and his brilliant azure eyes intensely stared at me, like flaming daggers. I blankly returned the gaze from my own violet eyes, unable to turn them away. Then he with a frown looked at his watch. He sighed, and it sounded genuine.

"I'd love to continue talking to you," he began, "but I'm afraid I've got an appointment later. But you really got to come for dinner! How about … tomorrow?"

I affirmed. And thus began my deep, enthralling, yet short friendship with Henry Stewart.


	9. Eighth Chapter: Libertas

**Eighth Chapter – Libertas**

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><p><em>Fresno, Fresno County, Duchy of California, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_15th of September 2033 a.t.b._

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><p>I rang the doorbell.<p>

Henry's house was well-befitting his noble rank – large and of a bright white, set in a quiet suburb of Fresno. It was surrounded by a spacious garden, almost a park with its hills and bushes and trees and ponds. There was a wrought-iron fence around the property.

A buzz from the intercom, then the gate opened and I drove onto the Stewart family's property. Now I was able to perceive the house itself better: it was an old, big house with big windows; it looked rather stately. However – the stucco was crumbling in various places, the lawn growing exuberantly – it gave out a feeling of _past _splendour.

In front of the main entrance stood Henry's black sports car; I parked Jeremiah's next to it – although I could not identify myself as an Imperial Prince here, Schneizel had before my departure handed me a nobility ID amongst other documents, which gave me countless privileges, including that to drive a car at fifteen and without a licence.

Somewhere in the capital, a Department for Transport civil servant was probably banging his head against his desk in agony.

I got out and went to the main entrance. The doors were flung open and instead of a butler Henry himself came outside to greet me on the staircase.

"Welcome!," he called out to me, "Welcome indeed!," and led me inside before I could say a single word.

The entrance hall was splendorous, perfectly clean, but also slightly run-down – the brazen staircase railings and door knobs were tarnished, the marble floor had obviously not been polished for a long time – but still it was, for lack of a better word, homely and a place far more likeable than the cold halls of the palace. The estate had a certain charm.

I shot a quick look at one of the mirrors – I wore a dark purple, gold-embroidered tailcoat and a light sabre with golden hilt and knot, usual dress for the realm's nobility – Henry was dressed in a similar fashion, though his tailcoat was pure white.

Henry led me, all the while cheerfully chatting, into an adjourning dining hall. "My sisters are here as well, only just arrived, though. Probably they'll join us later – have a seat. A drink?"

I politely declined the offer. The dining hall seemed – contrary to the other parts of the house I had seen – to be inhabited, on the mirror above the sideboard were some sticky notes and photos.

Quite soon Henry's sisters joined us – twelve years old Eleanor and ten years old Isabella, two adorable little brats – and an elderly chef who seemed to have been with the Stewarts for three or four generations brought the food. Actually each of the three courses was splendid, but I barely noticed: I was far too caught up in observing this happy little family, in observing Henry.

I don't know how much time passed. Eventually, sun had long since gone down, Henry sent his sisters to sleep. Eleanor and Isabella griped, but eventually complied.

He gave his sisters a good-night-kiss each, then apologetically smiled at me.

"Forgive me," he said, "the girls can be quite a plague."

I returned the look. "It's okay. All of us were like this, weren't we?"

Henry laughed, thoughtfully reached for his wine glass, but then put it down again.

"Say, Faramond, I'm curious. How comes your family can afford to live in New Haven? The ground prizes are supposed to be astronomic, I've heard …"

"Oh, my family owns a … house there. It's been empty for quite some time, but after the destruction of Pendragon …" I broke off. It might not be an actual lie, but still I felt bad not letting Henry know the truth.

"I see. But why New Haven? I mean, it's been a godforsaken place but for the summer palace – which barely an emperor ever visited up to the Demon."

_My mommy's the Empress._

"Oh, I see," I simply laughed instead, "probably. I believe our house was built soon after the Humiliation of Edinburgh, when our ancestors flew from the old homeland …"

Henry's eyes sparkled amusedly. "Old nobility _and _a house in New Haven? Don't tell me you know Her Majesty the Empress personally?"

"I wish. Guess I'm not important enough, though."

He snickered regretfully. "Too bad. I'd love to meet her some day."

"Any special reason?"

"Well, it's just – I admire the Empress. I'm really no fan of monarchy, but Empress Nunnally did great deeds. I mean – just look at the numbers. The overseas Areas freed … economy's flourishing …"

"And don't you forget the civil war."

Oh, this disastrous war. It had been going on for seven long, bloody years, and no end was in sight. And they did not even make progress, neither side did – both sides had entrenched near the Isthmus of Panama and developed fortifications several kilometres deep. The war was nowhere alike to the brilliant (and less brilliant) manoeuvres developed in many battles since the annexation of Japan. There was no movement, Knightmares were almost exclusively ground-bound again, where they were safe of anti-air artillery. Tanks had become fashionable again. With good regularity both sides sacrificed ten thousands of men in bloody and successless offensives, the respective fleets constantly shelled their opponents from the seaside, but it did no good.

Between the two front trenches there were up to three kilometres of no man's land, completely lifeless, moon-like, a muddy, brown ocean splattered with corpses and shot-down tanks and Knightmares. One could probably fill a small library with horror stories about people having to survive between the fronts.

Behind both fronts the people starved. Towns were deserted, plundered and sacked.

Now Henry said: "But for the civil war, you're completely right. But what could she have done against it? It wasn't her who rose in armed rebellion."

"Yet she could have ended the war. Why not seek peace? Why not give up on total victory and search a solution honourable for both? Emperor Charles is very popular in the Southern Realm, as far as we know. If it's the will of the people – how can one deny a people, thinking, acting humans, its will?"

Henry softly laughed, took a sip of wine. I did alike, it was quite a good drop.

"How Kantian. But what if a people is not powerful enough to enforce its will? Must we then not intervene and help them to their right?"

"Not at all. You speak as if Britannia were to play the policeman for the world – but we already had that under Charles and Lelouch and it did no good to anyone. Yet no people can be held in its chains; they would always rise and eventually always win. Just look at the Age of Revolutions! The independence movements in the Areas, the 2018 nationalist rebellion in China!"

"And what about the other, less successful revolutions? The independence fights of the French colonies, the Italian Civil War, the first Black Rebellion?"

I frowned, thought about it for a short moment. "Sure, those revolts were successless and partly ended bloody. But I am certain that they will eventually end as the people wishes it to end."

"Yet how can we allow that, how can we expect them to bear that? That they, after being oppressed for so long, will have to fear bloody repression? May we, may Britannia as a nation permit that?"

"Certainly not Britannia, we are simply no reliable partner for democratic movements, freedom fighters and peace; whatever the Empress and Secretary General Sumeragi may say. We sadly have never been a democracy and will probably not become one in foreseeable future. All the rebellions in the Areas we have again and again oppressed till finally one succeeded – and certainly we're not peaceful. But another nation – any other nation – shall and must take the steps necessary to grant a people the life it wishes for. Note, though: isn't it to be expected that by military intervention even greater harms are made?"

Henry laughed. "I guess we're wandering of topic. You might be right; forgive me, though, if I insist. We talked about the South. Surely the Empress could end the war – could draw back her forces, shake the hand of Charles IV and smile politely. But how long, do you think, would it take until this greedy bastard is in New Haven Shire with his armies? That man conquered all of South America and proclaimed himself Emperor, do you really want to trust such a person?"

"If I must, yes. If it gives us a chance to peace in our time – definitely. I don't like what he's done, either, but I think that we might not have all the information there is."

Only now I noticed what I actually had _said_. Did I really play the _advocatus diaboli _against Nunnally, who was not only my mother, but also the Empress?

Well, apparently.

"But of course you're right," I thus completed, just to be safe, "Empress Nunnally is one of the best monarchs we ever had."

Henry only rolled his eyes. "That's right, compared to her predecessors she's an angel, no, a goddess. It's not the person that's bad – it's the system of hereditary monarchy itself … I mean, just look at this fabled House of Britannia. There are exactly three possible heirs to the throne: Prime Minister Schneizel, who not only is a Machiavellian bastard, but also turns a fool the moment Zero appears. Princess Cornelia, who can't appear at an international conference without it becoming a scandal because some of her countless victim's representatives feel attacked. And the Crown Prince of course, that Faramond, of whom nobody knows more than the date of birth, who has never been in public – do you really think one of them would make a good Emperor?"

It did not hurt, only sting a little, when he gave this cool estimation of my family (because it somewhat was just that), although I already knew similar comments on myself. Also he was right, after all. There _was no _worthy heir for my mother: neither Schneizel nor Cornelia nor anyone else, not to speak of myself.

"Of course," I finally managed to say, "But then what to place instead of monarchy?"

Henry looked at me with utter amusement. "Why, democracy, of course."

"But do you really think that's possibly? In Britannia? This is a multi-ethnic state with huge disparities. We already have civil war. How will it be without a strong figure at the top, even if it's but a symbol?"

With sparkling eyes Henry focused me. "But what if that figure isn't strong? What, if it's a weak monarch – or worse, a tyrant like Charles and Lelouch?"

"Then parliament takes power," I responded. "That's the best with Britannia's system, after all."

"Yes, that's how it's supposed to be. But Britannia's parliament is weak, other than that of England, very weak indeed; plus it is dominated by the Lords, not the Commons. And," he laughed, "the two of us should know best that the Lords only follow their own interest. The Commons are barely of importance even today, there are far too many rules and prohibitions – in the end there's either a weak Emperor that lets his children or the Lords divide the realm between themselves or a tyrant. And don't get me started on the Commons being puppets of the bourgeoisie anyway."

I kept silence. Indeed he was right – since the reign of Henry IXthere had been only tyrants and weaklings, nothing in between.

"But the Commons are becoming more influential lately, aren't they?," I thus responded. "Do you really think this movement will be stoppable? Just look at the opposition parties right now. They've gotten more confident when Lelouch abolished the nobility, from the Patriots to the Republicans and Socialists. Personally … I believe that the next Emperor will be but a figurehead."

"Unless we are conquered by Charles IV first."

"Unless we are conquered by Charles IV first, indeed. But even then, won't the democratic movement be strong? I mean, how will one stop the entire people?"

Thoughtfully Henry refilled first my, then his glass.

"Lelouch managed to. After abolishing nobility he somehow managed to control the democrats …"

"I guess people were afraid of being shot if they protested."

"Probably. The question is, though: why? Why did Lelouch suddenly start suppressing the democrats after he supposedly supported them whilst in exile? After all he even met some of their goals – the abolition of the nobility, freeing the Areas, et cetera. In the first months of his government he even had a Prime Minister elected from amongst the Commons – not the Lords. Also, personally I can only imagine that Lelouch needed all his power to do something else – perhaps all the atrocities alleged to him. But … no, that can't be right. Why this change of mind?"

Frustratedly he interrupted his monologue.

"Almost … almost I've got the solution. Almost … but then, there's always on puzzle piece missing. If only I knew …" Then Henry came to himself again, looked up from the table and smiled apologetically.

"Forgive me, I forgot myself."

I gave him a strained smile. I felt sorry for him – although he had everything I desired, I had what he desired – the knowledge. But did it have to be like this?, a quiet voice in the back of my head kept asking, must he stay unknowing?

Could not I initiate Henry?

Jeremiah had taken an oath of me to keep the secrets of the Order – on the other hand he had told them to me. Lady Shinozaki, the only member of the Order to stay at the farm for a while, had again and again insisted how important secrecy was – nonetheless she had gotten to know of it despite not having had an active role in the Zero Requiem. There _had _to be new knights so that the ideals of the Order did not die out.

But Jeremiah was the sovereign of the Order. How could I claim to take in a new member if I did not even know his criteria? Even more so – how could I assume to _knight _someone? In theory my rank was more than sufficient for that, but even in the 21st century since Eowyn, fifteen centuries after the death of King Arthur, more than five since the disappearance of armed knights mounting barbed steeds, a knight was supposed to fulfil all the virtues supposed Britannian and Christian: Courage. Justice. Mercy. Charity. Faith. Strength. Humility. Determination.

But he who expected someone to do something – to take this greatest of all oaths, that would demand the entire self – had to do it first. And was there a single of those virtues that I fulfilled?

"Ask Lord Jeremiah," I thus proposed to Henry, "he knew Lelouch."

Henry waved aside. "Sure, I know. But – you're his nephew, you know him. I tried to ask him about it countless times … and of course never once got a clear answer. To be honest, I'd even doubt he'd tell _you _about it. But all of his allusions … they just make me more curious. I'm almost certain he knows _something_."

Somehow I then managed to get the topic to a safer terrain.

In the course of the night Henry and I often would note our views corresponding. With bright eyes we imagined a Britannian democracy (quite possible that I just was afraid – but even today I would prefer such an utopia over the system that took everything from me and … well, I don't have much of a choice, do I? It's by His orders); excitedly we imagined a peaceful – and especially free world. Equality was our creed and red our colour, liberty our vow and the Phrygian cap our uniform.

We spoke of politics and society, then history and the arts, finally religion and love.

We spoke all night long.


	10. Ninth Chapter: Honour

Whilst I really liked writing and translating this chapter's first part, the second one - although much more relevant for the course of the story - is utter rubbish. Blame Gaddafi (Gathafi?).

BTW, I noticed that one of the major differences of English and German vocabulary is that the latter is superior in all the words describing thoughts, nature, speech, whilst English seems to be superior in the description of movements and action. For example, English has no single word for "schweigen" (to be silent, saying nothing) - while one can not describe the word "gemütlich" (~homely) in less than 500 words. It's truly enthralling. Not as much as a single review, though.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Ninth Chapter – Honour<strong>

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><p><em>Paris, French Empire, EU<em>

_25th of September 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>"Excuse me, monsieur."<p>

The guardsman turned to the young lady. He could barely see her face; the square might have been lightened by ancient gas lamps, but she stood in his sentry box's shadow. "How may I be of assistance, madame?"

It might have been the middle of the night – but Paris never slept and beside the protection of the Emperor, Napoleon V, it was the duty of the _Garde Imperiale et Républicaine _to serve the citizens of France and Europe.

His first guess at being approached by a young girl long past midnight had been that it had to be a who... a professional, he corrected himself – utter politeness was expected from a guardsman. But this was not one of the red light districts of his home town Florence, this was the _Jardin des Tuileries_. Directly behind his sentry post was the iron fence dividing the public parts of the park from the palace gardens. On the horizon the Louvre museum was brightly lit. No, there was no prostitute that would find her way to this place in doing her job.

The girl stepped closer, into the gas lamp's pool of light. She could not be older than sixteen years, but her looks were bewitching – long, silky, raven hair and fair pale skin: but her most enthralling feature, the one that captured his gaze and wouldn't let go of it, were her big, unfathomable eyes with their strange golden colour. She wore a black dress that reminded him of that Japanese style his little sister was crazy about, and apparently no make-up.

The guardsman might have been about nine years older than her, being 25 – still he felt his nether regions react strongly.

Suddenly her left eye seemed to light up red – how weird, he though whilst losing himself in her different-coloured eyes. "Monsieur," she sweetly asked, "if you could kindly escort me and my companion into the palace?"

Behind her a gentleman appeared that could barely be older than she, also raven-haired and dressed black, but he barely noticed Him.

He wanted to answer that he was not entitled to, that only official guests were allowed to enter the palace – but he couldn't. He wanted to help this beautiful girl get inside at all costs, no, he desired to. Still – no, he could not. What if she – no, certainly not she, but what if her mysterious escort was after the well-being of the imperial family? The Emperor in particular had made some enemies during both the Britannian Wars, the ensuing Re-establishment of the Union and his tenure as President of the Central Hemicycle.

But the wish to help her, to enable this gorgeous young lady see the rooms of the palace won. What could go wrong, after all?

Smiling and hanging his rifle over his shoulder, the guardsman stepped out of his box. "Of course, madame. Monsieur. Please follow me." – and approached the broad, wrought-iron main gate. Strangely his comrade in the other sentry box did not seem to notice him as he unlocked the gate bearing the imperial eagle and Bonaparte bees and opened one of the wings.

Then he led the girl and her escort into the palace gardens of the Tuileries.

"What … what is your name, madame?," he dared ask after a while as they approached the palace between accurate flower beds, ornamental broderie-style beds, straight lines of trees, carefully pruned shrubbery, lawns and fountains.

She smiled a beautiful smile and caught up with him. "Jeanne," she merely said. "And what's yours?"

Probably his cheeks had the same colour as the ridiculous helm crest and his uniform's cuffs – bright scarlet.

"Sergent François Salviati, madame. Second Regiment of Grenadiers-afoot of the Guard."

"François Salviati …," she repeated. Something about the way the young girl pronounced his name let a pleasant shiver run down his back. "What a marvellous name. Are you from Italy?"

"Indeed, madame. I'm from Florence … and … and what about you? You speak with a slight _jurassien _accent …"

Fortunately they reached the palace in this moment. While François was just about to open the gate, another guard watching the main entrance hurried to him. "What's going on?," he asked and then "... who's that, François?"

"Well, that's …," he hawed. But then Jeanne put her slender white hand on his arm and it was as if an electric shock had hit him.

Her companion remained silent.

"I'm Jeanne," she sweetly introduced herself. "We absolutely want to visit the palace; will that be alright?"

It seemed his comrade wanted to reply – but then he halted and François noticed some narrow, reddish rings around his eyes for a moment.

And then he said: "Well … it's … it's not exactly allowed. I can't permit that …" But then the guardsman looked at him – it was Louis from his battalion, a friendly man with whom he had worked before.

"On the other hand … François, you'll go with them, won't you? Then … if you keep an eye on them, it should be okay." And thus he opened the grand doors of the Tuileries Palace to them.

* * *

><p>Raptly Jeanne danced through the huge, dark ballroom of the palace.<p>

"Come, _papa_, it's marvellous!"

Her companion had barely left the door sill; an arrogant, aloof smile graced His attractive face. He did not seem particularly impressed. His face somehow felt familiar to François, yet the guardsman could not remember whence.

Jeanne calling Him "dad" seemed weird. François eyed Him from the corner of his eye. The man couldn't be older than twenty, could He …?

Suddenly Jeanne came up to him and took his hand. He blushed heavily, grateful for the darkness. "François, come on."

His face had probably looked utterly confused – it was difficult to follow, far easier to just stare at her – for she explained.

"This is a ballroom, thus we shall dance. _Papa_ doesn't want to, so you'll have to do!"

Embarrassedly he managed to divert his gaze from her.

"I … I mustn't. In fact it's not allowed to bring strangers into the palace, I mustn't lose side of you."

It was obvious that he did not mean her, but Him, her mysterious companion. However, He remained silent, did not even look at him.

But Jeanne once again captured his gaze with her gorgeous honey-coloured eyes, once again he lost himself in them, once again one of them – the left one – turned red. This time he thought he saw a bird flying towards him.

"Oh, come on, François. You want it too, don't you?"

He hesitated – yes, he wanted to. He wanted – no, he desired to dance with her – and thus he threw aside his rifle, took her hand and with a bow said:

"Madame, if I may have this dance?"

She giggled, light and pure, drew him with her to the ballroom's centre, and then to an inaudible melody they whirled across the parquet on which kings and emperors, premier-consuls and presidents had danced.

"Madame," he finally dared to ask the beautiful girl, "how … how did you do that? How did you get Louis to let us in?"

Once again she laughed. "Can you keep a secret, François?"

He suddenly noticed that she had addressed him with the intimate _tu _instead of the previous _vous_, and his cheeks, the hand and waist her hands touched (and his nether regions, once more) felt like they were on fire. Again her beautiful eyes caught his gaze, and thus he merely nodded without a word.

Jeanne drew him closer, much closer, whispered to his ear. They were so close he could _feel _the warmth of her body.

"I have been granted the power of kings …"

Then she mischievously pressed her lips on his.

The last sensation François had before He stabbed him from behind with an elegant, but quite sharp 16th century rapier was absolute ecstasy.

* * *

><p>"Splendid," spoke He when He finally held His daughter in His arms. "Your Geass is powerful … it seems you can use it on the same person multiple times, on a distance of up to 43 metres. Jeanne …," He paused. "Not bad."<p>

She blissfully smiled.

"Why did you kill him, _papa_?," she asked with a kiss, still smiling. "Would he have been a threat?"

He sternly looked into her eyes. "He saw us and knew of Geass. To let him live would have been a threat that to ignore would have been … unwise."

She parted from Him, passed by the bloody corpse to one of the ballroom's grand windows and looked out to the roofs of nightly Paris. "So then me kissing him doesn't matter?," she quietly asked.

Her father's face hardened. "That as well. I do not wish to see such behaviour again."

She winced a little, then quietly nodded. "May I ask what your agents in Bogotá and Panama told you?," she asked in order to change topics.

"It seems both sides are preparing a large-scale winter offensive. It's understandable they want to break through the hostile positions and finally get this war to move again." He snorted bitterly. "How cruel. Britannians slay Britannians, and in the end two offensives of the same strength nullify each other. We can only hope that Nunnally's armies march first …"

Now she turned to Him again, her eyes wide with disbelief. "But … how can you just ignore it? If you find it so sickening, can't you just … _end _this war?"

Silence.

"Come," He then said, "Come, my daughter, enough with the dancing. We still got to take care some of your possessions get to Japan securely."

* * *

><p><em>Carmel-by-the-Sea, Montereyshire, Duchy of California, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_At the same time_

* * *

><p>The last sunbathers had long since left the beach; the last ones still staring into the breakers were Henry and I. He had invited me here – not only his family possessed another house here, it was his favourite place in all California. And thus Henry had spent the day flirting with the girls and I discreetly restraining from doing so – giggling groups of girls made me nervous; I barely got out a clear sentence speaking to them.<p>

Henry and I sat in the sand, a tiny magnet chessboard between us.

The situation was difficult: albeit my knights controlled the board's centre, he had already taken both of my bishops, one rook and a multitude of pawns following a mistake in the opening, while his army still stood nearly unscathed.

It took me a moment to discover the saving move – then I moved the king one field diagonally. Considering the situation it was no bad move – it not only brought the king to a position in where he (although central) could hardly be attacked but also prepared a forceful attack on his queen's side. No, not a bad move – only a little bit unconventional.

Surprised Henry raised a brow, leant forward.

"The king?," he noted, "That's … unusual."

He frowned, thought about it. Then he laughed. "And it even works."

But redeploying his bishop for security he said: "There you have it again – chess hasn't been a mirror of reality since the 15th century."

"To what extend?," I enquired, slightly taken aback.

Henry pointed at the board. "Why, just look at it! Look at the rules! Who was the last monarch of the Realm to fight and die on the battlefield? Richard III, in 1540 a.t.b., the Battle of Bosworth Field!"

"Sure," I countered, "Of course it's become to dangerous for a monarch to fight on the front lines – but the game's still a faithful mirror of the political stage. The emperor still leads his armies to the battle, still everything is lost once he falls."

"Bollocks. The Europeans tend to give their command, not only in battle but also in civic life, to elected committees, commissions of experts, and general staffs – and it certainly didn't harm them. Before the Eighth Generation Knightmare Frame, the EU was on par with us – so it does work without a strongman to lead."

Till today I do not know why I insisted on my point of view – why I actually had this point of view. A feeling of duty to my name?

"But … well, Empress Nunnally …"

"Yes, yes, yes. Nunnally is great – but isn't that the problem of hereditary monarchy? Richard the Lion-heart was succeeded by John Lackland. Henry the Good was succeeded first by the weak Richard IV, then Charles III, then Lelouch. Can we permit ourselves to hand the fate of our nation completely to one single person, merely because it is the son or daughter of the one who did the job before? Nunnally's heir apparent – Faramond, the Prince of Wales – has not been seen in public for years, never has he spoken to his people. Who knows what positions he might have? Who know if he is able?" He gave a slight laugh. "Well, I've got an idea, but …"

I was silent, stared into the breakers.

"There is something … something I did not tell you."

Henry curiously looked at me, yet remained silent.

What the hell was I doing?

"My name … I'm not Faramond Lamperouge. But …"

"His Imperial and Royal Highness, Faramond Ichiro Alexander, Prince of Wales and Newfoundland," he interrupted me, slowly pronouncing each and every word. "I know."

I simply stared. He had said it as if it were nothing … But how could it be? How did he know? My face was not at all well-known, and it was not implausible that after my birth children had been named after me (there were a few dozen Lelouchs in Britannia, certainly the butts of many cruel jokes).

"The internet," Henry said, reading my mind.

"Pardon?"

"You reminded me of a picture I once saw online. Of course, it was your photograph … so I googled 'Faramond Lamperouge' and behold – the omniscient online encyclopaedia wisely redirected me to Faramond, Prince of Wales and Newfoundland. Your mother called herself Lamperouge when she was in exile and Japan, didn't she?"

I did not know what to say.

I said: "You … knew all the time?"

"For the last two months … yeah."

"Why didn't you say anything, then?"

The question was not complete, I thought. Henry had always seemed so natural, so informal, so friendly – no-one would have guessed he was talking to a prince.

"Should I have?," he calmly countered. He moved the chess board aside and turned to me, sitting in the sand cross-legged. "Faramond," he began, "you are – excepting your completely crazy style at chess – a normal person. You might be the grandson of Charles III and the nephew of Lelouch – that doesn't change anything about you being great – it doesn't change that we're friends."

My … friend? I thought about it. I had never had something like this (for what is a friend?), but he was right: when I was with Henry I felt indescribable (it was a feeling I would only have for one other person – but then I did not yet know what it meant, nor would I have understood it).

Henry solemnly looked in my eyes. "I don't care what path you will choose, Faramond," he said, "but I know that I shall follow you forever. A Britannia under you is one I will gladly serve, for you are my friend and I am yours."

I hesitated.

"You … you are aware of what that means, aren't you?"

"I am." He rose, I did the same – and then Henry knelt before me.

"Make me your Knight of Honour, my Prince, here and now!"

Involuntarily I backed off.

"Henry, that is … madness! I _can't _knight you, I'm not entitled to!"

"You are the First Prince of the Realm," he countered. "One day you shall rule over billions of people. In this realm there is nothing you are not entitled to – nothing that is out of your power. And to make me your knight seems to be the only way to me … the only way we can stay together when you eventually return to the Capital."

"There … there got to be another possibility …"

"Like what?"

I silenced. He was right, as usual: there was no other possibility.

"But … no, I can not do that. I can not bind you to me like that! I can't force you to live your life in my chains!"

He solemnly caught my gaze with his beautiful azure eyes.

"I am willing."

– and unsheathed his sword. Offered me the hilt …

I seized it.

"Very well then. Henry Stewart, Earl of Kate, dost thou, upon this day, pledge thy fidelity to the Holy Britannian Empire and wilt thou stand firmly as a …"

I stopped, diverted my gaze.

"No," I spoke once again, "I can't do that. I can't punish you like this!"

Henry, however, smiled calmly. "If it is from your hands, I will gladly take whatever punishment you shall see fit."

I could not look into his eyes. I stared at the ocean. The blade's tip gleamed in the evening sun. I raised the sword. The blade's tip gleamed.

And from then on everything went well.

"Dost thou, upon this day, pledge thy fidelity to the Holy Britannian Empire and wilt thou stand firmly as a Knight of the Crown?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Wilt thou forsake thyself and be sword and shield for the greater good?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

And with the sword's tip I touched his left, then his right shoulder, then his head.

"Then thus I, Faramond Ichiro Alexander, Prince of Wales and Newfoundland, do hereby dub thee Knight of Honour. May your courage and devotion become a shining example to the people of the Empire – rise as a Knight, Sir Henry Stewart."

_In the name of the Witch and the Traitor and the Demon._

He rose as a Knight, and before I was able to react his lips were on mine.

I dropped the sword.

I closed my eyes.


	11. Tenth Chapter: Offensive

Kate and Sawyer are of course shamelessly stolen from Lost.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Tenth Chapter – Offensive<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Headquarters of Army Group South of the Imperial Armed Forces, Militarised Area Three, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_1st of November 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>The front might rest, but it never slept.<p>

At any time there was something going on in the various bases and of course the front-line fortifications themselves: patrols came and left, sentries observed the no man's land's muddy moonscape with eagle's eyes and infrared binoculars, the standby watched a film in mess.

This night however was an exception, for the largest military area of the Realm buzzed in excitement as the elite units of Her Majesty's armed forces equipped for battle: the southern detachment of the Imperial Knightmare Corps.

Princess Cornelia would have preferred to join the Knights and Dames, mount her customised _Parceval _and once again rout her foes as the "Witch of Britannia" used to – but beside the obvious amenities it certainly brought some difficulties commanding the greatest offensive of military history since the Five Emperors' War and the French campaign in Austria. And thus she was not with her Knightmare, but by the "chess board", the large map table inside the CIC – the _Combat Information Centre_.

As she had noticed earlier during similar operations, there were exactly two kinds of people around her: for one there were the young, excited freshmen in the staff. Those came fresh from the academy and had never been fielded or commanded a unit before. They would run around excitedly, talk nonsense and burst into tears at the first shot – or, rarely, turn out as members of the second group to which Cornelia beside herself counted Guilfords, the Generals Warwick and Darlton and the three Knights Weinberg, Fisher and Fitzgerald.

Displeased Cornelia frowned. Here she had three Knights of the Round under her command – and could only employ one of them because the other two were under heavy suspicion of being guilty of the worst of felonies: high treason.

Months after the attempt for Nunnally's life she had only been able to exclude Gottwald himself, Alstreim and Weinberg from the suspicion. By now she knew the many thousand pages of reports about every single other Knight in her sleep, but nowhere she found even the slightest evidence that her suspicion was justified: that the Knights of the Round collaborated with the enemy.

Guilford had proposed to ask Weinberg – who was doubtlessly innocent – for his assistance as he was the one spending most time with the other Knights. It was no bad idea – but Cornelia did not want the suspects to suspect her of knowing and then defect to the South with invaluable information, Knightmares and skills. She doubted the silly blond Knight's ability to keep a secret.

She broke away from such thoughts and once again looked at the chess board. It showed a detailed map of southern Central and northern South America, with three windows depicting in a larger scale the coasts of Guyana and Ecuador, the respective invasion fleets and of course the fortifications at the front.

"General Warwick," Cornelia eventually said, "What's our status?"

The elderly General looked at his PDA's display. "Everything's clear so far. All pilots excepting Your Highness's guard and Lords Fisher and Fitzgerald have mounted; infantry and armour ready. No unusual events in the south – here's the last satellite image of their entrenchments."

Cornelia took the sheet from his hands. The photo was black and white, but edited in order to emphasise the structures on the ground. The hostile lines consisted of a vast system of trenches, sniper positions, camouflaged pillboxes, MG nest and particularly strategically placed turrets and the artillery batteries behind the front-lines. A single shot from one of those 25cm cannons could easily tear a Knightmare apart. Add to that the various bases, some of which seemingly contained a hundred Knightmares or complete conventional divisions. Sadly those bases were completely resistant to all weapons in her armoury – artillery grenades and modern flight bombs alike found them incredibly hard nuts to crack. The only way to seize them probably was a concentrated attack and determined elimination of all units inside.

"Thank you," she told Warwick, then turned to Admiral Marlborough, with whom she was working for the first time now. "What about the XIII and XXV armies? Ready for action?"

Marlborough cleared his throat. "Indeed, Your Highness. The SBS were already landed in _Calais_ and _Harfleur_: from our current position we'd send in the marines in five and eight minutes respectively to secure the ports. Once we've seized both harbours we can unship the XIII in _Calais_ and the XXV in _Harfleur_ with their equipment within a few hours."

"Good. Keep me up-to-date. Your men received their orders?"

"Of course, ma'am."

"Then we shall begin the barrage. Ten minutes and not a second more, is that clear? Guilford, please have the men move."

"Yes, my lady."

Cornelia denied herself a loving smile. How many times had she asked her Knight to call her "Cornelia"? Even when alone he still insisted on "my lady", "ma'am" or at best the suggestive "princess". It had been hard when Euphie had died – hard to see her light vanish from life. Guilford had been the one giving her the strength to make it and, drowning, she had clung to him – until she had learned of Geass and without informing him left the hospital to wipe out the order herself. Of course it had been a mistake to go without him – she had thought it to be a personal matter. Well, now she knew better: Guilford's loyalty and fidelity and love were with her, not her father's corrupt regime. Her personal matters were his.

Marlborough's oily voice interrupted her tender thoughts. "Ma'am, the first stage of _Operation Syracus _was an utter success. _Team Hermes _secured the harbour of _Harfleur_, we'll send in the MEF now. _Operation Ostia _however seems to have come to a halt – _Pluto _reports contact and our intel about the enemy's HIMS _Duke of Wellington _not being in port has been incorrect. Shall we still bring in the marines?"

Cornelia frowned. The perfect success of a mission was seldom, almost utopian, especially when one trusted in fifty soldiers of the SBS to seize a major port.

But still it was an inexcusable mistake, it was unacceptable and catastrophic that the teams had not managed to seize or destroy the South's single frigate lying off _Calais_. Still – now she could only march forth, never back. "Disable the _Wellington _at all costs. We can not permit her shooting down our transports in the harbour."

"Yes, ma'am. The _Invincible _has already opened fire."

On the screen on the wall before them Guilford's face appeared. He apparently was seated in a Knighmare.

"My lady, the advance party has made contact. Sir Peter Raleigh reports his assault troop managed to clean the first trench on a hundred metres' width and has now opened fire against the other positions from a captured turret – but he mentions the enemy's surprising strength, they already lost roughly a hundred men in the first attack. Your orders?"

"Tell Raleigh he will get a peerage and an Elizabeth Cross if he manages to hold his position," Cornelia drily said. Then she added: "Join him with the 15th Air Cavalry and make sure we get the entire trench."

"Yes, my lady," her Knight promised.

"Oh, and Guilford?," she added just before his face disappeared from the screen. "Come back when you're done."

The Knight smiled. "Your wish is my command … princess."

* * *

><p><em>Port *********, code named Calais, Grand Duchy of Ecuador, Holy Britannian Empire (South)<em>

_At the same time_

* * *

><p>Serjeant Thomas MacArthur of the SBS cursed, drew his knife out of the dead body and wiped some sweat from his forehead. Sawyer and Kate reloaded their submachine guns, then used their night vision gear to look around the dark warehouse they had just freed of its last guard. It was neither ammunition nor weapons, as he had expected upon receiving his orders, but apparently corn sacks – Thomas shrugged. Food was of strategic importance as well, after all.<p>

Once again he looked at the young, spotty soldier he had just killed, then he pressed the button at the side of his helmet that connected him to mission control aboard the HIMS _Invincible_. "_Team Caligula_: secured target. No losses," he laconically reported.

"Understood," the answer came immediately. "Awfully sorry you got to do overtime, but we've got something else for you: the local chief of police is one of the few remaining objects still a threat to our occupation. Go to his house and eliminate him, take his family hostage if he's not there. Do you read?"

On their helmet's marvellous visors a photo of the target and the city's map with his house marked appeared. It was only a stone's throw, explaining why they had gotten the command.

"Yes, sir," he confirmed. "_Caligula _out."

"That's our fifth task tonight," Kate joked, "you think we'll get a medal?"

"You might, freckles," Sawyer immediately shot back, "We two ain't pretty enough for the SBS to boast with us."

Thomas rolled his eyes as he quickly checked his weapon. "Can't you guys stay quiet for a few minutes?" – and left the warehouse. His comrades followed him without another word.

Still they heard gunfire from the harbour, where a soldier apparently had managed to wake up the _Duke of Wellington_'s crew, once in a while the hallow rumble of a shot from the _Invincible_'s artillery. But around them it was ghastly quiet: the few people living around the harbour were either dead or locked up somewhere at the point of a gun and those dwelling in the suburbs tried to stay as quiet as possible, afraid to have the hostile "army" notice them.

It was only a stone's throw indeed to the chief of police's stately villa. Soon the three figures in dark body armour stood in front of the wrought-iron gate – there was not a single sign of life in the house and the gardens.

"Someone's got a deep sleep," Sawyer observed, raised his gun and fired a short volley into the lock.

Carefully they entered the garden, moving towards the house – Thomas suppressed a curse, if there was a back entrance they were done for good – and then broke open the door. A burglar alarm was beeping, but no one bothered trying out a code as Kate quickly placed three bullets in the small box. After that the engine gave no sign of life.

They stood in a spacious hall with noble parquet. On the walls were portraits, a broad staircase led up to the second story. "Kate," Thomas whispered, "you take ground floor? Let no one escape." – "Roger that." – "Sawyer, you go with me." – "Oh, but I'd rather go with freckles …" – "Stupid jerk."

Thomas sighed, then dealt Sawyer a light blow to the back of his head.

"Ouch," made his partner. "Just what did I do wrong that I got to work with the two of you?"

Sawyer laughed quietly. Kate left, gun levelled, to an adjacent room and immediately came out again.

"Broom closet?"

"Broom closet."

They went up the staircase.

"You go right," Thomas commanded whispering. For once Sawyer complied without a commentary and they parted.

Gun ready he entered the house's left wing. The first door he opened led to a bathroom, as did the second. Behind the third was a room decorated in bright pink, according to the posters of celebrities he had never heard of on the walls that of a teenager – the bed was empty. Thomas frowned. Had the family already fled? He quickly searched through the girl's dresser, but of course found nothing of interest.

Again he went to the hallway and was more successful with the next door he opened. Despite gunfire and explosions in the harbour the man from the photo and his wife were peacefully sleeping in their bed. Without hesitating, Thomas pressed the mouth of his submachine gun to the man's forehead. The moment he fired and sent him to kingdom come with a muffled sound, the man's eyes opened and confusedly stared at him.

Thomas averted his eyes.

"Who are you?"

He whirled around. In the door stood a little girl of perhaps six years in a nightgown, her cheeks were teary. Involuntarily he went a few steps toward her. She did not move. Then he took off his helmet and knelt down before her. He could see that the camouflage make-up in his face scared her, still she did not tremble nor flinch.

"I'm a very bad man," he said, trying to intimidate her. He really wasn't good with kids … "Listen – there are more bad men in the city. I and my friends will leave now, and then you must very quickly wake up your mummy and your sister …"

"But Claire's at her boyfriend's," the girl interrupted, "In Edwardsville."

Edwardsville was a suburb of _Calais_, quite a bit outside.

"That's good," he thus said. "Then just wake up your mummy and go there with her. It is important you don't stay here, do you understand that?"

She nodded. "Hm-hmm."

Softly Thomas patted her head. "I'm very sorry I had to hurt your daddy."

Then he rose and left the room.

Sawyer stood in the hallway.

"Please, don't say a word," Thomas asked him.

"I wasn't going to. Why, shall we?"

* * *

><p><em>First front-line trench, Militarised Area Three, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_At the same time_

* * *

><p>Guilford had left his Knightmare, "parked" the invaluable <em>Parceval <em>within the shelter of the deep trench.

The first thing he had noticed upon examining the area was the mud: tough, sticky, brownish mud like he had never seen before; multiple times Guilford had almost lost his boots in it. It reminded him of the trenches in the Five Emperors' War's Spanish and German campaigns he had seen on photos at the academy.

His second notice had been the smoking, destroyed Knightmare shot down by the camouflaged turrets between the lines. It was a _Parceval_, one of the most expensive weapons in existence, and the pilot had not managed to eject in time.

_Three years of training_, Guilford grimly thought, _and dies in his first engagement._

The third thing he had noticed, however, had been the corpses. They were lying around everywhere in the trench and in the no man's land, in some places the soldiers had already piled them up to make space – corpses of men and women in full uniform, barely possible to distinct those of the northern and the southern realms.

Guilford turned away, shuddering. Certainly he had seen much suffering in the service of his lady, but never something – this inhuman.

He turned to Sir Peter, who was still standing upright, leant against the trench's wall, as a medic applied a bandage to his arm.

"Report."

Immediately the Knight sprung to attention.

"Yes, Lord Guilford. My unit, the 521st Brigade's 1st Battalion, stormed the trench with five hundred infantrymen and ten Knightmares near point O-815. Most of them we lost in the no man's land – I'd say, about two dozen infantry and Knight-major Sir Victor Newman. The resistance within the trench itself, however, was stronger than expected."

Guilford frowned. "You think they expected us?" He remembered what his lady had told him about the horrible suspicion of the Order concerning the Knights of the Round Table.

"With all due respect, my lord," Raleigh objected, "I can't imagine they did. But look here – this man was fully equipped, assault rifle, grenades, gas mask, knife, just like for an assault troop. Personally I think those bastards planned an attack of their own in a few hours – good we were first."

Guilford nodded grimly. "Thank you, Sir Peter. I want you to know that my lady keeps her word: in a week you shall be Lord Peter Raleigh, 1st Baron Raleigh of Guatemala, EC."

The Knight deeply bowed. "Th...thank you, my lord! But … if I may note this – the fight is nowhere near over. This position is very weak as long as we can't bring in supplies and the surrounding artillery positions are not yet secured. At the moment the men of the 3rd and the 45th division are involved in heavy fighting in the connection trenches … your orders?"

"They shall keep on fighting," Guilford said after shortly thinking about it. "It does us no good if the foe manages to secure his entrenchments again. Take care they take their blood toll – you shall get your support. Now that we have secured the guns in the first trench, we can bring in the _Parcevals _airborne." He smiled. "If everything goes well, we will be in Bogotá within two weeks."


	12. Eleventh Chapter: Shattered

**Eleventh Chapter – Shattered**

* * *

><p><em>Floyd, Fresno County, Duchy of California, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_2nd of November 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>"Your phone's ringing."<p>

"I know, yeah. So would you please move your head so I can get to it?"

"Your wish shall be my command, Your Highness."

I laughed softly and Henry took his head from my lap so that I could take my mobile phone from my pockets.

We sat on the couch in Jeremiah's living room, reading: Henry _Le comte de Monte-Cristo_ and I that infamous manifesto from that 19th century pair of German philosophers, both of which I shall not name here, which Schneizel had thought too dangerous to my political development for me to read_. _Both books were from Jeremiah's collection, of course, who had gone to town, Anya once again apparently having vanished from the face of earth.

Frowning I looked at the phone's display. The caller's number was suppressed – not Jeremiah, then. Henry was sitting right next to me. Who else had my number?

I picked up.

"Hello …"

It was Schneizel.

"Good morning … or rather good evening. God, how I hate Tokyo."

Wait, the Prime Minister was in Tokyo? Hadn't the BBC just this morning broadcast that he was in Prussia? … but then why did he call me? I could only think of two possible reasons, and both curdled my blood.

"Why … why do you call me, sir?" That was the usual address he demanded from me. I had resisted a little in the first weeks, but now it was surprisingly easy.

"As you will certainly note within the next hours," Schneizel began, his voice cool and businesslike as usual, "our troops started a vast offensive against the South. About half the Army Group South is now on the march towards Bogotá. Simultaneously we erected spearheads in Ecuador and Guyana."

That … was, in all honesty, none of the reasons I had thought of. It wasn't like Schneizel at all to call just to keep one up-to-date.

Especially not me.

"And … what exactly does this have to do with me, sir?"

"Nothing, for now. But with Lord Jeremiah and Lady Anya."

Henry nudged me, silently his lips formed the words "Who's calling?". It was hard to ignore him.

"In consideration of the current situation, Her Majesty decreed that the Knights of One and of Six shall be despatched to the front in Guyana – our local army is perilled … I gather you are informed concerning the Round Table?"

I was indeed – one of the Order's principles was that the Knights had no secrets before each other. The Prime Minister's voice gave away that he did not like there being a secret he was not part of.

Still I did not entirely know who actually _was _a member of the Order, who knew of Zero Requiem without being a Knight or Lady and who had some idea of it. The members were easiest: Lord Jeremiah was the Order's sovereign, my mother, Princess Cornelia, Lady Kozuki, Lord Asplund, Lady Groomy, Lady Shinozaki, Lord Zero himself, Henry and I were Knights and Ladies respectively. I knew that Cornelia had informed her Knight, Guilford, and that Prime Minister Schneizel had a vague idea at least. Concerning Anya, not even Jeremiah knew if she was informed – she had neither received a sword of the Order nor been told of its mysteries by Jeremiah. On the other hand she had lived above the Order's chapel, in which the members regularly convened on the annual of the Requiem (but not this year, due to the imminent danger), for many years.

"I am informed."

I was – for lack of a word to better describe my astonishment – shocked when they had introduced me to to the ongoing inquiries against the Knights of the Round Table. Of course not against all of them – Sayoko, who had initiated me to most of the Order's secrets, had then immediately assured me that Lady Anya, Lord Jeremiah and furthermore Lord Gino were innocent – but the other Knights still had not been identified as traitors or as innocent to date:

Lord Gavin Hamley, Knight of Four, Lady Vivian Spencer, Knight of Eight, Lord Lance Fisher, Knight of Nine, Lady Elaine DeWitt, Knight of Eleven, Lord Percy Fitzgerald, Knight of Twelve.

The reason for my horror might be hard to understand nowadays – it even is to me by now. The old order has long since vanished. But back then Britannia was almost exclusively based on two national virtues: courage, and loyalty to the Crown and the Realm. Nothing else than the very embodiment of these and some minor virtues were Knights supposed to be: therefore they vowed fidelity to the Britannian Crown before receiving their swords – vowed to be a shining beacon of example to the peoples of the Realm. The thought that a Knight could betray his lord, for those of the Round Table Her Majesty the Empress, essentially was treasonous.

"Very well. I reserved three seats aboard the next plane from Fresno to New Haven Shire. You'll leave the day after tomorrow at 10 am local time …"

"Wait a moment," I interrupted, immediately knowing I had made a great mistake – one just _did not interrupt Schneizel_. Well, now there was no way back. "Why three tickets?"

"Because you will come as well, of course," he indignantly snarled at me.

Of course, it had been obvious. After all I was here for my protection, and that was no longer viable without Jeremiah and Anya (ignoring the fact that I freely moved throughout the duchy with Henry). It was only logical to summon me back to the capital – I stared at Henry, who had again buried himself in his book.

It was obvious by now – I loved him. I loved his charms and his sharp mind, I loved his keen features, I loved how he talked to people. I loved his kisses.

I had knighted Henry in the hope of staying with him – but had not thought about the consequences in the slightest. What if –

"Yes, sir," I thus murmured. "We will take the plane."

Schneizel went on to dictate some practical details – the name on which the tickets were reserved ("Richard Plantagenet"), the terminal and gate – and with a snappy side blow to provincialism reminded me of the dress code at court, but I barely listened.

Finally he hang up.

Again Henry inquired: "Who was that?," and this time I managed to answer. "His Highness the Prime Minister," I explained, " … my uncle."

But from his eyes I could see that he had understood.

"You … you were summoned away?"

I quietly lowered my gaze … I could not look into his eyes.

Henry sat up, his mien unreadable. "That's …," he began, and nothing could have prepared me for what would follow "... a pity. I had really hoped to be able to spend some more time here … well, I guess I should start to pack?"

I stared at him. "Are you serious?"

Henry jumped up from the couch. "Of course. Don't you remember? Already forgot the oath I swore you?"

No, I had not. Still – how could we? Even I – that is, of course, especially I – could not knight someone without Her Majesty's permission, not to speak of introducing this Knight to the court without him being carefully surveyed and found worthy before.

The Court, those egoistic, manipulative … creatures would tear Henry apart.

That I told him, panicked, worried. But Henry, dauntless as he always was, merely laughed.

"I am your Knight," he determinately said, "And it is my task – it is my duty, for I took a solemn oath on you, on my honour and on our love."

"Then I release you from this oath!," I called out, "You must not follow me – you would not survive three weeks at court, my uncle … God, my uncle would kill you!"

"And you," he fiercely responded, "What do you think enabled you to survive the court? Of course your rank makes you untouchable, but how is it? Do you have a single friend, a single ally in the capital? Would _you _survive if you were crowned the Emperor tomorrow?"

I lowered my gaze. He was right – I was a lamb amidst wolves just like he would be, but … but I was protected by a lion and a serpent – for now.

"No," I thus admitted, "I would not survive. But … I don't want you to …"

I broke off. Beseechingly I stared into his eyes, hoped that he would understand.

But Henry only warmly smiled at me … lovingly … and took my hand.

"And that is why I shall follow you. That is why I am yours."

* * *

><p><em>Lionheart Barracks, Imperial Summer Palace at New Haven Shire, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_4th of November 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>Fascinated, Jeremiah Gottwald carefully stroked the polished armour of the machine, deeply inhaled the slight odour of steel and fresh paint.<p>

"Well, _Orenji-kun_, do you like him?"

Jeremiah turned to the speaker. It had not been much of a surprise – he had been alone when entering his personal hangar, but his artificially enhanced senses and Lloyd's steps had long given away the eccentric inventor's arrival.

The Knight of One leisurely took a few steps back to be able to perceive the giant Knightmare in its entirety.

"He is beautiful," he finally admitted, and it was true: without a doubt this was the most splendid Knightmare he had ever served in (though that was no great feat after the crude_ Sutherlands _of the Purists and the two _Siegfrieds_). The machine was bright white and golden, with the black accents around the shoulders that the _Galahad –_ the Knightmare of his predecessor as the Knight of One – had already sported, but equipped entirely different. Whilst Bismarck Waldstein had yielded a giant MVS …

"Is that a VARIS? I thought these were exclusively for the _Lancelots_."

Lloyd came closer and looked at the blue rifle with an almost longing look. "Correct," he confirmed, "and actually it's kinda a desecration to use it again. If only they'd allow me … I'd be able to built a new, better _Lancelot _from the parts lying around here within mere three days. When all hell break loose in the South, I hoped every day I'd be asked to built a new Knightmare for Su... Zero."

Jeremiah nodded understandingly. The _Lancelot _and its successors had always been special machines and Lloyd Asplund's pride and joy. It must have costed the scientist quite effort to reuse one of Suzaku Kururugi's Knightmare's special characteristics.

Indeed the new Knightmare looked very much alike to the _Lancelot_. It had the same lean, elegant limbs, the VARIS of the _Albion_ and the double _Maser Vibration Swords_.

"What's his name?"

"I called him the _Bors_, but those nutters from the army insist on _Sussex_. I beg you, Jeremy, a Knightmare called _Sussex_! Can't they see it's not a bloody ship?"

Jeremiah laughed, graciously ignoring the butchering of his name. "I promise you to never call it any other way than _Bors_. What about Anya?"

Lloyd only shrugged. "The_ Agravain _is just as much of a bulky chump of brute force as the _Mordred _before her. And she's _pink_! I have … that is, Cecile built it. And well, she did it perfectly, but …"

He hesitated, then stopped.

Then Lloyd turned to the _Bors _and Jeremiah again.

"The _Bors _as well as the _Agravain _is a tenth generation Knighmare Frame. Doesn't mean much – you know how expensive sakuradite has become, those Energy Wing Cecile designed … no employer wants them any more since He annihilated 41.4 per cent of the global reserves. That means that we had to take out the wings again – the only reason we're in tenth and not in eighth generation again are some slight enhancements in the electronics. The side-sticks and the keyboard are more ergonomic now … and we finally found the joker that made the machine's computer regularly download either porn or a virus called _ClockwordOrange 2_. I believe he was executed last week … what a barbarian."

Jeremiah smiled wearily. He knew how much the inventor desired to built the Knightmares for which he was famous again – fantastic prototypes like the _Lancelot Albion _or the _Gawain_, shamelessly going over the budget by breathtaking amounts – or at least something else, everything was alright, as long as it was revolutionary and had never been before: what the _Lancelot _had been for Knightmares, the HIMAS _Avalon _had been for the young class of airships.

Without a word Lloyd turned on his heel and went towards the connection door to the Knight of Six's hangar. After a short moment of confusion the Knight of One followed him.

"Cecile says your fledgling already initiated a Knight to the Order?"

Jeremiah gave a tormented laugh. "Yes, he did. Sadly without telling anyone before. I know the young gentleman Prince Faramond chose a little – that makes it a bit more bearable."

"It doesn't seem as if the little one takes his oath very seriously …," Lloyd objected.

"Neither do you. Also – Faramond trusts Henry. Of course, love blinds, not even He was spared – but I've got a good feeling with Henry. Although Faramond should have asked me first, I can't help but think young Henry will be a worthy Knight."

Lloyd opened the door to the other hangar and they entered the equally-sized hall. Here as well there was a Knightmare in its centre, but contrary to the lean, tall _Bors _the _Agravain _was small, somewhat bulky and painted in a dull pink. It was surrounded by all kinds of machines, computers and technicians. Apparently Anya was in the machine's cockpit for a test run, for the Knightmare carefully moved its limbs, aimed at an invisible target with its Hadron Cannons.

Cecile turned to Jeremiah and Lloyd upon their entrance, smiled in greeting. "We'll have a pause of ten minutes, guys. Good work," she called to her co-workers. The technicians and scientists got the hint and left the two Knights and the two inventors alone.

"Good to see you back in action," was Cecile's greeting to Jeremiah, accompanied by a hug. By now Anya had left her Knighmare. Instead of joining them, however, the young lady sat on a crate and got out her phone.

"Did you already notice our artillery is bombing Bogotá?"

Jeremiah was surprised. He was no expert for artillery, but if that was correct and Cecile's sources were referring to the usual _Howitzer IA-15 Longbow_, the Realm's troops could not be more than fifty kilometres from Bogotá and the hostile headquarters located there – which meant that they had entered continental South America.

"That's an impressive advance," Lloyd, who had done the same calculations, although probably faster and far more exact, observed. "If we manage to get the war to moving again, the North is at advantage with its better Knightmares."

"Not to speak of that we have the better pilots with the Knights of Rounds and the better commander with Princess Cornelia," Jeremiah added. He barely counted himself to these 'better pilots' – although the Knight of One was supposed to be the strongest Knight of the Realm, he still noticed how the lack of practice and also, more and more, his age took their toll from him. It was not that he had become an easy opponent, far from it – but neither did he play in the same league as the aces, as a Kozuki Kallen or a Suzaku Kururugi any more. Or a Lady Marianne Lamperouge.

For any outsider it had to be an enigma that none of the other Knights of the Round Table had dared yet to challenge him to a duel. However the cause to that was deeper than simply respect for his experience and past accomplishments: for one, Jeremiah had only seldom been in contact with the other Knights for the past years – daily business was usually organised by Lord Weinberg, the one who had been in service longest. For another he possessed the worthiest good there was at Court – and thus in the holy halls of the _Lionheart Barracks_ in which the Round Table resided – connections, namely the explicit support of Her Majesty, Lord Zero and Their Highnesses. Whenever one of the younger Knights began to protest and feel uneasy under his lax rule and began to ask for support for a duel and the taking of the office from his comrades, Empress Nunnally invited him to festivities, conferences, councils or for tea. Such an open expression of support usually sufficed to muzzle even the most ambitious young Knight for a while.

Now Cecile frowned.

"You think so?," she objected, "Our main forces might advance, but at the same time the two bridgeheads in Ecuador and Guyana are endangered. If I recall correctly, the latter one is especially hard-fought – our troops can barely leave the city as the surrounding rain forests are full of with hostiles, and they are constantly under heavy barrage from air, land and sea. Also they say that a civil resurgence arose within the bridgehead and the marines can barely be supplied. Not exactly what one would call a success … my professional opinion."

"Of course," Jeremiah agreed, "_Operation Syracus _did not go entirely according to plan. But _Ostia _and _Juggernaut _were successful – that means that Army Group South will now quickly relieve _Calais_ and _Harfleur_ as they keep a solid front against possible counter-offensives. I doubt, though, that much will happen – _Operation Juggernaut _will have annihilated a great share of their troops and if Princess Cornelia unites with the marines in _Harfleur_ within the next weeks, we doubtlessly will have numerical superiority. And once we are firmly settled on both sides of the Andes, there is nothing that can stop us. _My _professional opinion."

Lloyd murmured something about "Amazon rain forest, awful place, loads of mosquitoes … ate the worst pudding of my life there …," but Jeremiah ignored him, confidently smiled at his still not convinced sister-in-Requiem.

"Plus Anya and I'll go down there now. Don't you worry – three weeks at most, by my honour, then the flag of the Realm, Lion and Serpent, shall fly over Bogotá."


	13. Twelfth Chapter: Beautillion

**Twelfth Chapter – Beautillion**

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><p><em>Imperial Summer Palace at New Haven Shire, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_3__rd__ of November 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>New Haven – <em>caput mundi<em>, as the city's motto said.

Generally one landed at Richard IV International Airport to the west of the small city – sometime in the 1920s it had been prohibited to built outside an exactly defined zone of settlement around the city centre. The Emperor responsible for that had wanted to preserve the both the natural beauty of the deep woods surrounding the city and his own hunting grounds. Nowadays this meant that the city centre was surrounded by a thick green belt, which in turn was surrounded by a sprawling metropolis.

At the airport one, if one of the privileged of this world, entered a sleek black limo with dark windows and a standard on the mudguard. Soon one left behind the airport grounds, which were then replaced by the vast campus, more of a park in fact, and the buildings embedded therein: first the modern glass and concrete buildings of the Ministry of Education, in the background the time-honoured limestone edifices and the neo-Gothic church of the Imperial Military Academy of St. George. Almost immediately the first structures of the second Campus of Yale University followed.

And only then began the actual city as the limousine turned left, then right, then left again, passed the seaport and then drove across the spectacular, highly-modern and much-photographed Woolesey Bridgeof star architect Victor Minguez, past the piers of the HIMS _Dauntless_, the HIMS _Elizabeth III _and the HIMS _Inflexible _and the barracks of the respective crews, then one entered the old warehouse district – old merchant's houses, marvellous in red brick and close-packed directly on the waterfront, nowadays a hip quarter of artists and students.

Yet this was not the heart of the city – only a few more streets, then the limousine followed the perfectly straight alley cutting through the central park by the sea like a sabre's blow and then suddenly St. Joseph's Palace housing Parliament appeared to the right.

And then came the true centre, a beautiful minster, perfectly white, two tall, slender square towers flanking the portal. Tall Gothic windows, pointed and supporting arches – a place that always filled me with a strange power, just as the far-away original did as if the architecture had mystical powers.

New Westminster Abbey.

Personally, I had only once been in the original church in London – my mother and Prince Schneizel had been in the United Kingdom for talks with Elizabeth Bonaparte-Tudor or rather her then-prime minister and together with one of my tutors I had had the honour of stepping onto this sacred ground as the first member of the House of Britannia since the Humiliation of Edinburgh.

The office of the Dean of Westminster had provided a guide, a young priest that had lived in New Haven Shire for several years and knew both cathedrals like the back of his hand – skilfully he had pointed out the countless little differences between both churches to me and the other members of the small delegation. There as well this strange power had befallen me as I had examined King Edward's Chair near the tomb of Henry V in the ambulatory.

An expatriate Britannian onlooker's attempt to shove me onto the coronation chair of the United Kingdom was confounded by the Imperial Guard.

Let us continue in New Haven Shire, though.

Shortly after having passed New Westminster, the limousine left the town centre, drove across another bridge, then following the perfectly straight road westwards first through residential areas, mostly stately mansions from the time when New Haven had first been capital, then through thick forest. Once in a while the chauffeur had to stop and let some deer cross the road.

Then finally one turned left, following the river, until the high wrought-iron fence and the broad gate with the arms of the Realm and the roses of the House of Tudor appeared, flanked by members of the Guard in bright scarlet uniforms. An officer stepped out of the sentry box, the chauffeur identified his passengers and the soldier sprang to attention, saluting the voyagers in the back.

Only two more kilometres through the forest, following the long alley flanked by majestic old elms, passing the side roads to the _Britannia_, _Lionheart _and _Wellington _Barracks, and then came the palace itself, embedded in parks.

And then it was all "Welcome home, Your Highness!," and "How may I serve Your Highness?and "Might I have a word with you, Faramond."

Henry and I followed Schneizel's request through long corridors and suits, eventually entering a small drawing room decorated entirely in red. There was a blazing fire in the fireplace, refreshments tea, coffee, water on a small table, Schneizel closed the door and addressed me.

"Faramond Ichiro Alexander," he sternly asked, clearly annoyed, "Who is that and why is he here?"

He meant Henry, who reached out his hand … "I'm Henry Stewart, Your Majesty. I'm …"

I quickly interrupted him, bowing my head. "Forgive me, sir," I began, "This is Lord Henry Stewart, 7th Earl of Kate … my Knight of Honour."

Something twitched in Schneizel's handsome face but then – that surprised me – he smiled. Or was it more of a smirk?

"One will see. In the meantime I have good news for you: Her Majesty The Empress shall return from Cassel tonight. She will decide on him."

* * *

><p>For dinner neither my mother nor Prince Schneizel showed up, so that Henry and I were dining alone.<p>

We barely talked – both of us were lost in thoughts, more in future than in present. What would happen?, was the unspoken question, Henry's fate the writing at the wall.

Silently I stared at my plate, at the dancing flames of the candles or the liquid in the wine glasses, however returned each of the nine courses almost untouched.

"Why is your … I mean, Prince Schneizel so displeased with me?," Henry eventually asked, breaking the silence.

"Not with you," I tried to calm him down, "but with me. I guess it's equal to him whom I choose as my Knight."

"Then why is he against me?"

"He's against _me_. I … I should have asked him or the Empress for permission to knight you. The last time last time a member of the Imperial House dared to dub a Knight of Honour without permission from the sovereign was … 2017, when the "Massacre Princess" Euphemia knighted Kururugi."

"I understand," said Henry, "So he's angry he had no hand in your choice?"

I blushed heavily. As always, he was dead-on. "Still … you should beware of what you say. Something like that can easily be taken as treason … damn it, everything can be taken as treason."

Henry only shrugged. "Guess it will be okay."

I rose, went to the window and stared out to the starry night. He, Henry, perhaps was too honest – too frank. HIM Government liked to pose as progressive and modern, but of course it was all about positioning oneself close to the sovereign – on the cost of all others.

A fourteen years old Knight without any kind of power base, without the support of a powerful peer, was fair game ...

Suddenly outside, on the alley leading to the palace through forest and park, several lights appeared – cars' headlights. Slowly three cars followed the slip road, passing the Prime Minister's wing of the palace, and halted directly before the main entrance. In the light of the lamps hidden in the park's shrubs and trees and flowerbeds I now saw an officer of the Guard had approached the central one and the senior servants led by the Yeoman of the Imperial Pantries – that is, the head butler – assembled in front of the entrance. A woman in a black and white maid's uniform got out of the car and walked around the dark limousine.

The officer opened the other door of the car and saluted smartly, the woman – apparently Lady Shinozaki, Mistress of the Household, Private Secretary to the Sovereign and aide-de-camp to Her Majesty – helped the person inside into a foldable wheelchair prepared.

The person that had left the car was a petite woman in a white dress with flowing light brown hair. Lady Shinozaki wheeled her to the entrance, as the woman greeted each and every of the servants by his name.

Henry stood beside me. I had not noticed him rising.

"Is that …"

"Y...yes."

Nunnally, the first of that name since the Conquest by the Grace of God the Empress of the Holy Britannian Empire, Queen of Great Britain, Ireland and France, Sovereign of the Areas, Defender of the Faith.

My mother …

* * *

><p>"Thank you, Sayoko. Please inform Lord Raleigh of the details of his peerage."<p>

Sayoko hinted a bow and, the papers in her hands, left Nunnally's office. The Empress once again lowered her gaze onto the report (a collective of farmers in the Grand Duchy of Ohio were complaining about dishonest business conducts of the Duke on 5000-odd pages). Yet soon she shoved aside the tome, sighed and massaged her sleeves. She looked at the portrait above the fireplace to the right of her desk. Onii-sama

15 years had passed since His death, but she had not been able to move on. It had been as if one had taken away the pillar from her on which she had always been able to rely, as if one had set her back to zero. Nunnally barely had a memory not shaped by Him. Even if He Himself was not present – every single of these precious memories was overshadowed by His closeness, by His presence.

He had always been with her.

His death thus had been the event to put the basement of her very existence to shambles, furthermore the loss of a huge chunk of her heart.

Now Nunnally was 30 years old, herself mother of a son. It hurt her a great deal that they barely knew each other. More and more she had to remember what had become of Onii-sama – no, the two of them, without a mother, without anyone but each other to turn to.

Empress Nunnally looked around the study.

There was of course the grand coronation portrait of her brother; there the thick carpet with her achievement of arms; to the left – directly opposite of Him – her own portrait above another fireplace, behind the desk of massive oakwood a single Britannian flag between the windows. A look through the windows – a starry night, but the ocean seemed stormier than normal. Paintings on the walls, dead Emperors, Kings and heroes, but also a few simple works by Clovis hung in this private study of hers, pictures depicting the Demon and the Massacre Princess and waking a warmth in her long deemed lost. On her desk were a laptop, writing utensils, a sole paper crane – dark violet, number 512 from the thirteenth set.

Someone knocked, Nunnally looked up.

"Come in, please."

The heavy oakwood doors were opened, a boy entered.

Nunnally's eyes lightened up. The boy was only fourteen, quite handsome with his light brown locks and soft features – his head was lowered, but Nunnally knew that his eyes were of the same bright lilac as hers, that they were _exactly the same_ piercing amethysts. He was her mirror in male, dressed in white tie from dinner.

"Faramond," she began pleased, meeting him halfway in her wheelchair, "You're back …"

She silenced when another boy entered, similarly dressed and of the same age, this one a blue-eyed strawberry blonde.

"Who's that?," she asked surprised, realising too late how rude that might have sounded.

And then her son and his companion bent their knees before her, their heads deeply bowed.

"Forgive my impudence, Your Majesty," Faramond quietly asked, then he pointed to the boy at his side without looking up. "This … that's Lord Henry Stewart, Earl of Kate … the man I choose to be my Knight."

She understood. Then, amusedly, she smiled.

"Is that so?"

Gently Nunnally raised both boys' chins so that she could into their eyes.

"I understand," she said. "Welcome home, Faramond. Welcome, Henry."

Both boys stared at her, her son confused, his Knight impressed.

Addressing Henry, she continued. "I am confident that Faramond had good reasons for his choice and that you shall be an outstanding Knight. Please, take care of my son."

He smiled with ardent eyes. "I will, Your Majesty."

She turned to Faramond. "I want you to know that I will always be supporting you to the utmost. I am glad you chose your Knight yourself – Schneizel was in fact planning to hand you a catalogue of proposals upon your return."

Once again Faramond lowered his gaze. Encouragingly she gently put her palm to his cheek. "With a Knight you chose yourself, you will always be better off than with one that has been forced unto you." The boy blushed, Nunnally folded her hands in her lap. "Rise," she asked them, "we cannot talk like this."

Hesitatingly they followed her request, the woman in the wheelchair now having to look up to them.

"Faramond," she inquired, thinking about a proper phrasing, "Lord Jeremiah told me you were … informed?"

The heir apparent nodded. "Indeed I am, as is Henry. Both of us are members of the Order."

Nunnally was relieved. That simplified things. "Very well. The memory of the sacrifice my brother made" – she gulped, for a moment finding herself unable to continue – "is the most important thing Britannia and the world possess. It is essential to humanity's continued existence that the spirit of Zero Requiem lives on, that there are people prepared to stand up for it. Lord Jeremiah may have told you that your task is secrecy – but firstly it is to take care that peace survives, whatever the cost may be. This is why even the outbreak of the Civil War was a defeat – because we, because I have not been able to unite the Realm. I trust that the two of you will prove worthier than I."

Faramond and Henry apparently felt quite awkward, unsure what to say.

And then Nunnally drew both boys into a loving embrace.

"Welcome home – both of you."

* * *

><p>As we left Her Majesty's apartments Henry, slightly dazzled, asked me: "Is your mother … I mean, is Her Majesty always this …" He stopped.<p>

"Radiant?," I suggested, smiling now. For the first time since we had arrived, I was at peace.

"Yes," he accepted, "I had not expected her to be this radiant … and still this normal. From the beginning her presence completely ruled the room and … well, somehow enlightened, still she's nowhere as aloof as one'd expect … on the contrary."

I laughed. "Indeed," I agreed without a moment's thought. "She's great."

For a while we were silent, followed the long Northern Gallery of the palace leading away from Her Majesty's apartments. Right-hand there were tall windows regularly embedded into the wall decorated with gold and stucco; through them the onlooker's gaze went far across the Atlantic eastwards in the stars' light. When Elizabeth III had left the old home they had planned her palace thus as to orientate everything towards England – and at the same time the sun brought new light and glory from the east to the New World, as the Empress had. On the left wall were, aptly lighted, the portraits of late monarchs. There was Eowyn himself hunting down Romans in a chariot, but also the more historical rulers including Richard I the Lionheart, Henry V, Henry VII Tudor, Elizabeth I the Great, William III, Elizabeth II, Henry XII the Good and … Lelouch the Demon.

Only when Henry and I had reached that last portrait he spoke.

"Are you content, Faramond?"

I hesitated, tried to think about the question. "How could I not be? We're together, we're home, my mother accepted you …"

"And still you're worried."

I only lowered my gaze, not being able to look into his marvellous eyes. Then I said, quoting from earlier that evening: "Guess it will be okay."

Lelouch's portrait seemed to laugh at us.


	14. 13th Chapter: Flight

A map of Area One / The Homeland is available on my deviantArt account (link in prologue's AN)**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Thirteenth Chapter – Flight<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Imperial Summer Palace at New Haven Shire, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_21st of December 2033 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>"His Imperial Highness The Prince of Wales and Newfoundland and his Knight of Honour, His Lordship The Earl of Kate!," announced the servant in livery standing beside the door as Henry and I entered the ballroom. Then – "His Grace The Duke of West Florida with escort."<p>

A few eyes focused us, some ladies near the entrance curtsied – slightly taken aback I noticed the coveting gazes some of the younger ladies threw Henry and sometimes me. Uneasily I fiddled around with the collar of my uniform tunic – I wore the Dress Uniform of the Colonel-in-Chief of the _Scots Guards_ (beside the 1st _Royal _Guards the only of the old regiments to support Elizabeth III on her escape to the New World) and Henry wore that of a major of the same regiment.

Encouragingly he smiled at me. "C'mon, it's just a party. Relax a little!"

"A party?," I answered drily. "This is the annual Yule Ball of Her Majesty, besides Empress's Birthday the most important event of the year for Britannia and her nobility. Just look around … there are three members of the Imperial House and all 42 dukes present, three viceroys, about a hundred marquesses and earls, not to speak of the thousand viscounts and barons, officers and civilian celebrities – this, Henry, is the greatest minefield of the Realm."

Slowly we moved through the dancing pairs towards the rear of the vast ballroom – to make space for the countless guests one had, as every year, prepared two further halls and opened the rest of the palace with the exception of the Imperial Apartments for the guests. The cadets of the _Academy of St. George _had been tucked in livery and equipped with tablets.

The orchestra played light allegrettos.

Politely greeting Henry and I strolled towards the pedestal roofed with a richly decorated baldachin at the hall's rear. The Empress was nowhere in sight – formerly the monarch had usually opened the ball with the first dance, however this was obviously up to Schneizel considering my mother's disabilities.

Henry disagreed. "This may well be true – of course this parquet is first and foremost a political one. To see and be seen. Still – it's a party. _On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; / No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet / To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. _Have some fun!"

I merely smiled wearily, but Henry rested his hand on my shoulder and guided me towards the tables to the rim of the dance floor. With an expert's eye he spotted two pretty ladies in our age boredly sitting at one of the tables in their elegant gowns observing the dancers.

"You take the right one."

Aghast I stared at my Knight. "I hope you don't mean what I think you mean."

"Depends all on what you think."

And Henry straightforwardly approached the girls.

The right one was quite beautiful – the kind of girl to turn men's heads: slender, yet not skinny, with small, firm breasts, straight red hair and blue eyes, dressed in an elegant silk gown to go with her eyes. Her companion was beautiful as well, similarly built, yet with dark hair and green eyes in a black gown.

The dark-haired one nudged the other girl with a light giggle as she saw Henry approach, me in tow, and then Henry addressed both.

"Hey," he greeted, then bowed mischievously and approached the dark-head. "May I have the pleasure of the next dance, milady?"

Without hesitating his chosen one rose and took the hand he offered. The other girl pouted playfully. "Aww, don't just leave me alone …"

I threw Henry a glare. _Bastard_.

His deep blue eyes twinkled amusedly as he put his arm around his partner, saying something along the lines of: _Look who's talking._

Thus I stepped forth and asked the redhead for a dance.

She curtsied, then took my hand with a smile. I led her onto the dance floor, rested my hand on her hip. Again I bowed as protocol demanded, then we began to whirl around in step with the music.

"Thank you, Your Highness. My name is Louise, by the way, Louise Talbot," she said. The Talbots were an old house that had since 1497 held the now titular earldom of Shrewsbury, the office of the Lord High Steward of Ireland as well as the young Duchy of Delaware. If I recalled correctly, Viscountess Louise Talbot was the sole heir to all the fiefs of the house.

"The honour is all mine," I assured. Louise smiled.

"No, really. I am …" She giggled, quit, lightly blushed. "I'm sort of a fan of Your Highness."

That was a surprise (and slightly alarming, considering the fanatical look in her deep blue eyes). Just when had I last done something memorable?

"That's … flattering. I must have missed the moment I became a pop star."

She giggled, slightly flirtatious, coming a little closer. "Seriously, I even own your action figures!"

I fell out of step. "Sorry, _what _did you say?"

"Just a joke." Thank God. "But I've always wanted to meet you."

I returned her beautiful smile, gently led her across the dance floor. "And does the original meet your expectations, milady?"

"It surpasses all my hopes."

At that point I must have blushed, for she laughed again.

The waltz ended. Louise separated our embrace, yet did not let go of my hand.

"My lord," she shyly asked, "could we perhaps go to the park for a moment? It's getting warm in here."

I was just about to answer, when the call from the servant beside the door interrupted me and all other people in the ballroom.

"Her Imperial and Royal Majesty, Nunnally, by the Grace of God the Empress of Britannia and thrice Queen!"

I could not see her, but the orchestra that had before played some waltz now intoned the beginning of the national anthem after four ruffles and flourishes.

I turned to Louise again. "Yes," I agreed, "Let's go." I offered her my arm. Slightly confused she looked first at me, then to the entrance, where a large crowd was forming around my mother, then back to me. Finally she linked arms with me and I led her through one of the glass side doors of the ballroom directly outside to the gardens. Henry and his partner followed us in some distance.

We stepped out to the park surrounding the palace. It was a surprisingly mild winter and there was no snow on the vast lawns and flowerbeds, still Louise visibly shivered in her silk ball gown. I laid my uniform's jacket over her bare shoulders. She thanked me with a smile.

From the sea a cold wind arose. The aptly designed hedges, flowerbeds and fountains we strolled between were discreetly lighted by hidden lamps. In some distance a few guardsmen in scarlet uniforms with the characteristic black shakos were smoking cigarettes.

"Why did we leave?," Louise asked, out of the blue.

"Pardon?"

"Why did you … why did Your Highness want to leave the hall, once Her Majesty came?," she asked. Then she clasped her hands over her mouth. Her red lips formed a big, surprised "O". Then she regained her composure. "Forgive me, sir. I … I should not have asked such a question."

I merely smiled wearily. "It's okay. After all, you're right … why I wanted to leave?" I hesitated. Yes, why indeed? I loved my mother as it was my duty as a son, and I admired her doings as the Empress. Then why … "I guess I don't know that myself. That is, I do: it disgusts me. It disgusts me how all those greedy parasites fawn on her, hoping they can loot some golden crumbs … it disgusts me that we live in a golden cage while in Colombia people die for our sake." I hesitated. "Forgive me," I then asked, "I didn't mean you. Please don't misunderstand me – Her Majesty … my mother … is a great person. But it's enough to make one sick, for one knows that one will never reach her …"

Louise slowly nodded. "_Can'st thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose / To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; / And, in the calmest and most stillest night / With all appliances and means to boot / Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! / Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. _Indeed."

This forced a smile on my face. "Yes," I agreed, "Indeed.

She hesitated. "May … may I call you Faramond, sir?"

"If I may call you Louise?"

Louise blushed. "Yes, please … Faramond."

We silenced for a moment.

"Still, how interesting her live must be," Louise then said with bright eyes, "Her Majesty travels the world, gets to meet the most important people of the earth and makes decisions that affect millions of subjects. Oh, how I would love to be Empress of Britannia for just one day …"

Again she linked arms with me, however being far closer this time.

"Who knows," she flirtatiously joked, "perhaps one day it will become a genuine possibility? What do you think, Faramond?"

I had to laugh.

We had without me noticing left the gardens proper, now stood in front of the neo-Gothic palace chapel, embedded into deep forest, the façades aptly lighted: in the bright shine of the spotlights the statues of saints and the gargoyles seemed to be alive. "Let's go inside," Louise asked, "I'm cold."

The interior of the chapel was saturnine, the only light being two candles on the altar and the dull shine coming through the colourful, mediaeval-appearing windows. Henry and his companion followed us inside. Could it be that he took his oath a little to serious …?

Thoughtfully Louise ran her slender white hand over the marble high altar. "Is it actually true that Her Majesty lived with the Demon for seven years?," she inquired.

I involuntarily grimaced. This was one of the questions one better did not ask. The last journalist who had dared to ask about the 'horrible abuse Your Majesty certainly had to suffer through' in an interview had been … actually I did not want to think about the last journalist who had asked this question (and then had had the audacity to "correct" HIM words in his article).

I did not know what to think any more, as I had already told Henry about a weak ago in the safe haven of my apartments. For many years I had stood firm in the faith that Lelouch had been the Demon, Evil personified – the revelation that his soul had not been black but rather dark grey had shattered one of the basic constants of my very existence. What else might be a lie? What else only half the truth?

"Yes," I thus merely confirmed, "From their banishment to the Black Rebellion Lelouch and Her Majesty lived in Tokyo under false names."

Louise shuddered. "How horrible it must have been for her to be forced to live with such a madman, such a … such an evil person … and how strong she must be indeed that she was able to overcome all those abuses those ghastly tabloids can't be silent about."

"Why, what do the tabloids say?"

"Well, that Lelouch … that he … his sister …" She blushed heavily, then broke off. I understood. "... that he had his way with her," I calmly concluded.

Louise clapped her hands over her mouth, then deeply bowed.

"Please, forgive me, Your Imperial Highness. I … I have already said too much. Excuse me." – and turned, rushing towards the church's portal. "Louise …," I began, yet could not finish the sentence. Henry and his partner, who had discreetly stayed by the entrance, looked after her. They exchanged a few words, then the girl followed her friend and Henry approached the altar.

"Just what the hell was that supposed to be?," he frowningly asked as the door loudly resounding slammed shut. I averted my gaze, leaning onto the cold marble of the altar.

"It's nothing," I said. "Nothing important," I then corrected myself. "We had a … a slight misunderstanding."

My Knight did not appear convinced in the slightest. "It's nothing," I insisted.

Without a word Henry stepped forth and calmly kissed my lips. I gave him his head and responded – these kisses still (or rather again) were rare, precious treasures, far to seldom we managed to steal a few moments for ourselves.

We separated, breathing heavily. For a moment we just stared into each other's eyes. Then Henry broke eye-contact, instead sitting down on the Lord's table, letting his legs freely dangle. "Well then, Faramond. What happened?"

I hesitated –

It was slightly irritating to see Henry sitting atop the altar like this, but whatever.

"She asked whether it's true that my mother and Lelouch lived together."

Henry quizzically raised a brow. "But that's certainly not everything. After all, she ran out crying."

Louise … had cried? That was … well, utterly interesting; I had seen no tears.

"No … it's not. Of course I confirmed … it's no secret after all. And then … then she told me that _The Herald _and co claim that Lelouch regularly raped his sister."

"And you took that personally."

"No … no. She just apologised and ran out … crying … after saying that," I denied. "Dear goodness … I don't know it myself. Perhaps it's even true … no, rather not. But, well, you know – I just don't care. It's ancient history. … in fact, I can't help but not care about almost anything. Who cares if Lelouch was an angel? Who cares if Louise tries to flirt herself into the Imperial House? I am … it's … it's completely crucifying, it's tormenting me, Henry. Just two months ago we were free, now …" I broke off, looked at Henry, who silently looked at me looking at him.

"I can't take it any more," I quietly repeated. "I don't want to lie any more, I no longer want to live behind a mask."

Henry slowly rose from the altar, deeply embracing me, still silent. I wholly surrendered to his embrace as he gently stroked my hair.

"That means you're not satisfied with life here at the court?," he asked in a strange voice.

"It sounds so selfish," I quietly said, but then I agreed – I was not satisfied. Nowhere close to it.

Henry's hand gently stroked my hair.

"If you want to, we can leave New Haven Shire. Together."

I bitterly laughed. "The army doesn't take 14 years olds." It was expected that I would serve in the armed forces once I was of age, probably earlier, considering the circumstances.

"I know." Henry ended the close embrace, suddenly took a thin, bound in dark-green leather booklet from his pockets and handed it to me. On the cover the great arms of the Realm were depicted, on it stood in golden letters _The Holy Britannian Empire_, below that _Passport_. I opened the passport, skimming through the foreign secretary's demand to let the bearer pass freely in the name of Her Imperial Britannian Majesty and then turned the page.

The photo showed me, but the name read _Alan Spencer_, apparently the son of the Duke of Cascadia. The Duke of Cascadia had no son …

Confusedly I stared at Henry. A … a false passport?

"Inside are a train ticket to New York City and a plane ticket from _Black Prince International_. I bribed a scullion to smuggle us to New Haven when he's buying groceries for the grand Christmas dinner – if you want to, we can be in Tokyo by the 25th."

I could only stare. "But … how did you …"

Yet my beloved Knight only smirked mischievously. "Just what kind of Knight would I be if I couldn't fulfil my Prince's every desire?"

Now I could only kiss him.


	15. 14th Chapter: Küstrin

**Fourteenth Chapter – Küstrin**

* * *

><p><em>Imperial Summer Palace at New Haven Shire, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_24th of December 2033_

* * *

><p>Her Majesty's Prime Minister lifted his gaze from the OSI's many-paged report on the infrastructure by the Southern front when someone knocked at his office's door.<p>

"Come in." It probably was Kanon or his secretary.

It was Major-General Charlotte Baroness Cavendish, the commander of the Imperial Guard. She hurried to his desk with military precision, stood at attention and saluted snappily. Casually Schneizel greeted her back, then with a charming smile he asked: "What will be your business with me, general?"

His charms did not work on her: the grim officer certainly was not here to bid him a merry Christmas. Usually he had not much business with the Guard – Cavendish first and foremost was a subordinate of the Empress and Cornelia. If she came to him, it could mean no good.

Suddenly all the military sharpness and coolness disappeared from the commander's wrinkly face. Schneizel turned to the report again. "Well", she began, then it broke out of her: "We lost the crown prince!"

At once his gaze was on her again. His hands, like living beings of their own, grasped the desk's edge for support.

"What?," whispered he without a sound.

The officer continued with hard restraint. "Prince Faramond and his knight are nowhere to be found. Professor Bebbington called the Lionheart Barracks around 2 o'clock to complain about His Highness not showing up to the astronomy lesson they agreed to have at Arthur's Peak. The officer in charge radioed the men guarding His Highness's apartments. They entered the anteroom of the Prince's bedchamber around 0210, then the bedroom itself … two minutes later they reported that His Highness was gone and a window open. Lord Stewart's disappeared as well. We thoroughly searched the palace ground, but didn't find anything. Now it is … 0413. So they had at least two hours, rather three."

She took a folded paper from her uniform's breast pocket and handed it to the Prime Minister. "We found this on His Highness's desk."

Schneizel took the sheet, unfolded it and quickly took in the details before going over the few lines: elegant paper fit for a letter to an Empress with the arms of the Prince of Wales and Newfoundland atop, the fountain pen had apparently been used in quite a hurry.

It was a letter, addressed to the Empress, and for a short moment Schneizel beamed in surprise and bliss at this new development. Then his broad grin faded to an amused smirk.

Schneizel skimmed through the short letter, examined the plain signature.

Leaning back in the leather cushioning of his luxurious armchair, he closed his eyes, deeply breathed in and out twice. Then he rose, letter in hand, and went to the fireplace. Calmly he threw the sheet of paper into the blazing flames; it started burning immediately.

For a moment he and the commander of the Guard observed the paper blackening first by the edges, then everywhere, finally dissolving to ashes.

Then Schneizel looked up and at the life-sized, gold-framed oil portrait of the Empress above the fireplace.

"Perfect," he whispered to no-one in particular, "Perfect indeed …"

"Sir?"

Again he turned to Cavendish. "Has Her Majesty been informed of the situation?"

"No. We didn't want to wake her before we had something concrete. Shall we …?"

Schneizel whirled around, staring at her with burning eyes. "Don't you dare! This is an unique chance for Britannia, one we _must not_ let pass by. Neither Her Majesty nor Lady Sayoko may know of it. We cannot allow Prince Faramond's – and thus Britannia's – bright future to be darkened by her maternal love." He hesitated. Of course he could not just let the foolish Crown Prince wander the world until he graciously decided to return. Therefore …

"I want you, Major-General Cavendish," Schneizel began calmly, yet with great determination, "to listen eagerly. I want two guardsmen on every international airport of the Realm. Mobilise the home front, have the military and the police search for Faramond and his Knight. I want every village cop in the Empire to know their faces! Have them found and arrested. And call me when you have them!

Then, I want the Air Force's interceptor jets fuelled and ready for combat; alarm our air-fleets at Pearl and Norfolk. And … yes, have all flights to Japan cancelled … without attracting too much attention."

The officer in surprise lifted a brow. "Japan, sir?," she stiffly inquired, "How do you know that's their destination?"

Schneizel smiled bitterly.

"It's always been Japan. All of us … strived for Japan. The country … changed the whole lot of us: Lelouch. Nunnally. Clovis. Euphemia. Cornelia. Father. Me. And now Faramond as well – he will try and flee to Japan, I am certain of it. That … that is the curse of our family."

His steel-blue eyes shone with excitement. "Onwards! It's time for the hunt."

As Cavendish saluted and left his office Schneizel was unable to go back to work. He went to the window, looked out to the starry winter night. The waning moon gently illuminated the treetops, the parks and the buildings of the palace. With some effort he could perceive the dull light over the town to the East.

Again the Prime Minister turned to the starry sky. Perseus shone particularly bright this night. He laughed – _Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires._

* * *

><p><em>The City of New York, Duchy of New York, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

* * *

><p>Henry paid the cab driver, then we stood in front of the airport's terminal. It was about quarter past 4 and I yawned.<p>

Nervously I looked around. A few policemen with machine pistols stood by the entrance smoking, without noticing us, a small group of soldiers with their luggage hurried by, without noticing us.

"You think they're already looking for us?," I asked Henry.

"Don't think so, really," he said and took his bag. "There are but six people who can command the Guard: the Empress, the Prime Minister, the Home and War Secretaries, the commander of the Guard and the Knight of One. And I'm quite sure all of those are peacefully asleep right now. They probably still search for us on the palace grounds."

We entered the lobby of _Edward, the Black Prince International Airport_. Stainless steel and glass and polished marble all over the place. "The cook that drove us to the city station won't return to the palace till 8 o'clock and promised not to sell us out. I guess we've got a few hours until he does."

That made me laugh. Henry moved directly past the check-in – we only had cabin luggage with us and our boarding cards were securely stored inside our false passports – towards the security check …

I quickened my steps. "Are you not nervous at all?"

Henry choose not to respond. We passed the check-ins of _Pan-Britannica _and _Phoenix Airways_, two fast food restaurants and a bookshop, then we approached the controls.

A short line had formed before the metal detector's grey portal; we lined in. Two families and half a dozen businesspeople in grey suits and costumes were checked and approved of, then we put our bags in the waiting plastic boxes (I noticed Henry's hand trembling) and went through the metal detector.

I do not know what I expected – sirens and red lights, policemen attacking us.

Nothing happened at all.

Only a printer printed out the most recent list of wanted fugitives with a buzz.

I looked for the noise's origin. One of the policemen that had checked us stepped to the device, took out the sheet of paper, skimmed through it and paled. Henry soothingly rested his hand on my shoulder. "_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players …_"

"Hey, you there! Stop!"

"Run!"

* * *

><p><em>Fort Hamilton, The City of New York, Duchy of New York, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

* * *

><p>With an awful crunching sound the steel door was closed behind him and Henry was alone. Quickly getting to his feet he inspected his surroundings – a small room of at most three times four metres, completely out of raw concrete. There was a large one-way window on the wall to the left, there were a table and two plastic chairs. Cold light illuminated things that should have stayed in the dark. There were some scribblings on the walls, in a great hurry noted down with markers and ball-point pens, mostly insults and slurs of soldiers arrested here against their superiors, but also comments critically of the system or even traitorous. One arrestee had even written long poems onto one wall.<p>

It was a cell.

On the table were paper and a black ball-point pen.

He approached the one-way window, stared at himself staring at himself staring at himself in the mirror.

"Hello?," he asked. He barely managed to hide his fear. "Anybody there?"

Henry wanted to explain that he was Knight of Honour to the Crown Prince and thus could only be judged on by his prince and the Empress, wanted to demand being led to Faramond – then he reconsidered.

When they had just been arrested, two guardsmen had joined the airport police and immediately taken command. If the Guard was here …

He tried to remember the few things he had found out about the Imperial Guard. Who could mobilise them? The Empress, naturally, the Prime Minister, the General-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, the War and Home Secretaries, the Commander of the Guard herself, in rare cases the Dean of New-Westminster or the Lord Mayor of New Haven.

The dean and the Lord Mayor were nonsense, of course – while Henry knew that Faramond and he had broken a great lot of laws tonight, he just could not remember participating in a church procession or having threatened public order in New Haven. The Home Secretary had flown to his family in Florida over Christmas. The Secretary of War would not have been informed of matters concerning the Imperial House this quickly. Princess Cornelia had already departed for the front after the Yule Ball – leaving only the Empress, Prince Schneizel and Major-General Cavendish.

Would one have informed the Empress?

The Henry Stewart of three months ago would have strongly affirmed without hesitation. The Empress was, no matter if one deemed this good or bad, the ruler of the Realm. On her bloodline all sovereignty in Britannia was based and she firmly controlled the government.

After two months at court and especially after seeing how … why, how normal Her Majesty was and how weak she saw herself, he had to reconsider this idea. Now he found it probable that the Empress, although, as he had seen, a woman of a powerful mind and a strong will, was the last person they had informed.

Still – they had arrested Faramond as well, which could surely be done only on Her Majesty's command. While they still had been kept together on their way here, Henry had had to discover that they had wanted to separate them upon reaching the base. He had resisted with all his might – it was not merely his duty to protect Faramond, he almost felt physical pain at not knowing how he was.

As it was useless to silently stare at the one-way window and whoever was behind it, he sat on one of the fragile plastic chairs with a sigh.

He had promised Faramond they would go (flee) to Japan together, and he had failed. Failed him.

From the hallway he heard a silent whispering: voices, muffled to an unintelligible stream of sounds. Ghostly, grimly foreboding. Then a key was turned in the lock and the door handle pressed down.

Henry quickly rose when the door was opened.

He expected to be hugged by a relieved Faramond, to be calmly inquired on his intentions by the Empress, or simply to be brought breakfast by a bored soldier.

It was none of it.

It was none of the sort.

"Good morning, Mr Stewart," the man entering politely spoke as though Henry was his guest and not his prisoner.

"I believe your will know why I am here," said Her Majesty's Prime Minister.

…

Henry trembled.

"Come on, sit down, please," Prince Schneizel jovially offered. Hesitatingly Henry did so, with both hands grasping the edge of the table that his knuckles were pure white. Schneizel sat on the other chair, crossed his legs, expressionlessly staring at him across the table.

Henry stared back, for a long moment azure and royal blue met. Then he broke eye contact.

"You know what I want of you."

Henry hesitated – "Pardon me, Your Highness, if I don't."

Schneizel shook his head in (fake) grave regret. "Alas, Mr Stewart. Did not you know that this foolish act would open Pandora's can for you. Why did you do it? Did you want power? Riches?"

"Did what?"

"Why, seduce the Prince, of course. And that –"

Henry jumped up, deeply offended. "That's a lie!," he shouted, "I did not 'seduce' Faramond, as you say, we …"

He could not proceed. Schneizel's cool voice broke over his without the slightest effort.

"Then tell me whose idea it was to commit treason! Whose idea was it that he knights _you_, some useless, nameless provincial fool, _Mr Stewart_?"

With all his wit he could not answer these questions. Schneizel was right – those had been his ideas. Still, he had always done what was in Faramond's interest – his beloved prince _suffered_ at the court. He, who could hardly avert his gaze from the prince's splendid beauty, had _seen_ that Faramond wore his mask with the greatest effort, had _seen_ all the light and this marvellous shine vanish from his eyes the closer they had come to the Capital. Somebody had had to get him out of there, there had been no choice!

Yet a tiny, annoying voice in the back of his head objected. _How_, it asked, _how can you know that he would have been more content, more lively in Japan? How can you know that he really suffered._

Henry told the tiny, annoying voice in the back of his head to mind its own business. _Alas, but I am you._

Then he rose, firmly looking into Schneizel's eyes. "You will call me _Sir _Stewart, if I may. I am the Knight of His Highness Prince Faramond and are to be judged only by him or Her Majesty."

Schneizel smirked. "No, you are not, _Mr _Stewart. After all, Prince Faramond is not even permitted to knight you without first asking for Her Majesty The Empress's permission. As, even if she graciously decided not to punish you, there was no official knighting, you are no knight, much less a Knight to the Crown. Furthermore …" He smirked, one could see that this part he had very much enjoyed, "Furthermore just now it was decreed that, in view of your acts of treason, your peerage shall be escheated to the Crown. So … you will understand that no address other than _Mr Stewart _is appropriate."

Henry slowly sank back into his chair. He thought of his sisters; how was he supposed to pay the expensive school without his appanage?

Then understanding befell him like an icy shower. His titles had always given him a certain standing above the law and his knighting had moved him outside of it to a place where he owed allegiance to no one but Faramond and the Empress, but now he was completely defenceless. Faramond probably sat in a similar cell, but he was protected by, if not the serpent, at least the lioness.

Schneizel's blatant satisfaction did nothing to dispel his sorrows.

"So … what do you want me to do?," he finally managed to say.

Silently the Prime Minister pointed at the pen and paper on the table.

"No," whispered Henry. "No, you won't get that from me. I … I have nothing to confess."

Without a further word Prince Schneizel rose, casually brushing some dust from his grey overcoat's tails. Henry looked after him.

The door was opened to the Prime Minister; his ADC, Earl Maldini, shot a curious look into the cell, completely ignoring the unfortunate knight inside. Leaving, Schneizel once again turned to Henry.

"You should know that upon Her Majesty's Government's insistence and in the face of law, the Lords Justice at the High Court sadly had no choice. You have just been sentenced for treason, desertion and treason of the Crown. Your request for pardon could sadly not be confirmed." He laughed. "Write what has to be written. You don't have much time left."

Without waiting for a response, Prince Schneizel left and closed the door behind him.

Henry looked at the blank paper, gulped.

With trembling fingers he began writing.

_I, Henry Stewart, Knight of Honour to His Imperial and Royal Highness The Prince Faramond of Wales and Newfoundland, being of sound mind and in a good state of health, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament and do revoke all former wills and codicils heretofore made by me … _

* * *

><p>I yelled at the door, no one responded.<p>

I tried to beg, no one responded.

On the hallway heavy steps and quiet discussion were to be heard.

The cell was as old as the rest of the base first erected by the American rebels under Washington. Between the ancient bricks grass was growing, the barred window for some reason had never gotten glass. The icy winter air cut my flesh, on the hallway heavy steps and quiet discussion were to be heard.

The only furnishings were a fragile bed and a … a bucket in the corner. _How mediaeval indeed_. On the bed was a tiny, leather-bound book.

To divert myself from Henry (as if that were going to work) I opened it to a random page around the middle part. It was a Bible, tiny, badly printed letters on wafer-thin paper. _So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom … _the 90th psalm, 12th verse.

I forced myself to read a few more chapters, then I frustratedly threw the book of books into a dirty corner of the cell. It was no use – I had to face the facts, I told myself. So, alright:

I sat in a tiny cell on a New York military base. I did not knew where Henry was, probably in a similar cell. Up to know I had seen nobody but the guardsmen that had escorted me – no lawyer, no member of the court, not even a warden. Not to speak of Henry.

Not peculiarly promising.

A bright shine, blazing rays of the winter sun, fell through the high, tiny window into my cell. I rose from the bed, moved it beneath the window and stood on it so that I could look outside.

The brilliant sun rose over New York, the famed skyscrapers of Manhattan brightly twinkling. With some effort I could perceive the Atlantic Ocean to the South, the sea behind which lay the Old Home was very calm this Christmas morning. I wondered if we would still be free had our destination been London instead of Tokyo.

Then a movement below me in the base's court attracted my attention. A small group of men marched through the thin snow – an officer, five soldiers, Henry.

He was going between two soldiers, obviously not very content with his situation, yet his back was perfectly straight. His eyes were locked firmly on something somewhere distant.

Trembling I grasped the icy bars on my window. I called out his name, though but a whisper came out.

Silently Henry had himself be led to the base's outer wall at the border of the central square around which the buildings were set, only a dozen metres away from me.

Henry stood facing the wall, exchanged a few polite, yet tense words with the soldier that had led him there.

The soldiers lined up before him, all of them red-coated guardsmen, all of them armed with rifles, none of them moving.

Again I cried out his name. This time he heard it and surprisedly turned to face me.

"Henry … what …" That was enough, he could read my questions in my eyes as in a book.

He was perfectly calm, as he had always been.

"Faramond … please, forgive me. … I could not keep my promise nor my oath. Yet … there is only thing I regret: that I have but one live to give for you."

Henry smiled, lovingly, sadly, then firmly looked at the soldiers.

"Gentlemen …"

I screamed. I begged, I cried.

The soldiers aimed.

The icy winter air cut my flesh, New York twinkled in the first (last) sunlight.

"HENRY!"

"_I love you, Faramond._"

"Ready!"

Everything turned black.

* * *

><p><em>Requiem æternam dona eis, et lux perpetua luceat eis … <em>


	16. 15th Chapter: Refraining

The quotes are, in this order, by:

Ray Bradbury in "Something Wicked this Way Comes"  
>Shakespeare in "Hamlet, Prince of Denmark" und<br>John Milton in "Paradise Lost".

You will have noticed that one sentence is interrupted by the flashback. That is not a mistake ;)

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><p><strong>Fifteenth Chapter – Refraining<strong>

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><p><em>Imperial Summer Palace at New Haven Shire, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_25th of December 2033 a.t.b._

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><p>By dawn I had already been brought back to New Haven.<p>

I didn't know how exactly – I opened my eyes and stared at my bedroom's ceiling.

I was called to the family's annual Christmas dinner, I ignored it. I did not want to see any of them, did not want to see Schneizel.

I tried to read –

I tried to cry –

I wandered the palace. Thrice I stood before the door of the gallery of the Realm's Sovereigns, thrice I turned. I did not want to see Henry IX either, I did not want to see Lelouch.

I looked up from the red runner on the polished marble floor and stood before the Empress's apartments.

The four men of the guard of honour beside the large oakwood door with the Imperial Arms threw me awkward glances. Four men? That meant she was there.

I entered.

In the anteroom was nobody, neither in Her Majesty's library nor study. Thus I approached the smaller of the two parlours and knocked.

I do not know why I had not immediately tried Her Majesty's private living room. Silently I stood before the door without anything to do, helpless. I thought of running away. Just what was my business here? He was _… dead_, no one could change that. Never would he laugh again, never would we spend all night discussing issues beyond our influence.

No one.

There was no answer from the room and I was just about to turn around in relief when I heard voices from the room. Then a laugh – bitter, bleak, almost hysterical, yet unmistakably the Empress.

Without a sound I pressed down the brazen handle and slightly opened the door.

The only source of light in the parlour were the blazing flames in the fireplace. On a sofa before that sat the Empress, her wheelchair beside her. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling – sobbing, laughing?

Before her knelt a man, very skinny, with haggard greyish skin, thin brown hair, a large burn scar disfigured the side of his visage facing me, yet still the emerald eyes were lively and bright.

Suzaku Kururugi. Knight of Zero to the Demon.

His hands clasped Nunnally's right; he was adorned in the costume of Zero …

I held my breath lest I missed a single word.

The Empress slowly calmed down, taking Kururugi's face in her hands.

"The gods must find their pleasure in us," whispered she, "Us, who stand atop mankind and yet – below them all."

Kururugi was visibly uneasy. "Don't say that, Nunnally," he begged, "You have nothing to blame yourself for."

"So, you think so? Then kindly tell me when I last could care for my subjects in Rio de Janeiro. Kindly tell me when the last Britannian soldier finally died in Panama." Her voice sharpened. "Tell me when I last _held my brother in my arms_!"

"Those things … those things are not your fault," the traitor tried to calm her. "They are mine. He entrusted me to take care of these things … of peace. And I was unable to, I failed. I failed Him. You … you have nothing to blame yourself for. He … He would be proud..."

"Proud!," she interrupted him. "Proud! He may have entrusted you with His death, but _Onii-sama _asked me for peace which I cannot offer him. No, _Onii-sama _wouldn't have the slightest cause to take pride in me. There is not one task I did not fail at!"

This time I was certain that she was crying. The traitorous Knight embraced her, and without hesitating my mother clung to him as if drowning, bedding her head on Zero's shoulder.

"Just look at us … two lovers, bound in grief!"

"That's not a very healthy relationship …," Kururugi whispered into her dresses folds.

"I've never had a healthy relationship. I never … had the chance."

They silenced, I let go of the door handle.

Zero … Zero was Kururugi? The Demon Lelouch's right hand had had a reputation as a traitor long before his death. But I could barely imagine him betraying and murdering his final lord …

Again I thought of Jeremiah's odd liturgy at my knighting. _… __a dead man prepared himself to forsake his old self and become a dark knight of justice. On His own order he then dressed in the costume of the fallen rebel, the Black Knight's, the costume and the mask of Zero. Hence he became Lord Zero of Nowhere. _

Up to now I always had had great doubts, but if that was true …

Still, yet another lie. Yet another mask.

Had Lady Sayoko not insisted again and again that there were to be no secrets within the Order?

Again I knocked, louder than before. There was the hasty rustling of cloth as the lovers parted, then a silent whiz as Kururugi donned Zero's mask again. "Come in?"

My gaze lowered I entered the parlour. "Faramond …," said my mother uneasily, obviously trying to establish how much I had heard and seen. Zero stood beside her now, the mask hiding his flayed face. I stared at him intently.

After a short, tense moment of silence Zero bowed to the Empress. She nodded silently and without another word Zero rushed by me. My gaze followed him as the door closed behind him.

My mother turned towards me. "Faramond," she repeated, then uneasily broke off.

I opened my mouth –

Then I broke down before her, grabbing her shoulders in search for support. She embraced me, steadfast yet gentle, my tears wetting her dress.

"I know, it won't help," she softly whispered, "but I'm so sorry. If I had been there … they kept it from me … oh, I'm so terribly sorry …"

Now she was crying as well, a few shining tears running down her white cheeks. "I … I know how you feel. When my brother died …"

"How can you compare that?," I interrupted her between sobs. "Henry … Henry's …"

"You think I do not know what was between the two of them?" Again she laughed hysterically and – it sounded like breaking. "I might not be a good mother …" – "P... please, don't say that …" – "... but it's true a mother knows her son. I know how close you were, how dearly you loved him, I could tell at first glance. It's … it's just like back then with _Onii-sama _and me. I … He was my raison d'etre. When He died …"

She halted.

"We were always very close. He … He cared for me and … He was all I had after they murdered our mother. He was always there. Whenever … my wheelchair had to be repaired or there was another doctor's bill to be paid, He would gamble with Tokyo's nobles to pay for it. He was always there …"

Again she laughed, again there were glimmering tears in her eyes. Her hollow gaze was fixed to the Demon's portrait above the fireplace.

"That is, until _Onii-sama _took the throne. That – I guess we never were farther apart than then. I had fled to Cambodia with Cornelia and Schnei... the Prime Minister. He was in Pendragon. I heard the broadcast of the whole charade on the radio … how He proclaimed Himself Emperor and forced the court into submission. I can't go into details, but … well. And then the _Damocles _was completed – then _Onii-sama _declared war on the UFN. Schneizel decided we'd have to act – that we'd have to stand up to _Onii-sama._"

Again my mother laughed. "What a joke! How cruel a tragedy. In every other country of the world, in _every other_, a politician that destroyed the nation's capital and killed millions of people would have been executed. In Britannia, I can't even dismiss him. In every other country the princess that pulled the trigger dozens of times would have been exiled in disgrace – here she's solemnly crowned, anointed and enthroned. _Onii-sama _was right, as usual – Britannia is rotten, rotten to her imperial core. … and thus we confronted Him. I confronted Him and for the first time, for the very first time since the death of His and my mother I opposed Him. I … oh, by all gods, _it still hurts _… I proclaimed myself His enemy. I vowed to end His rule … vowed to crush Him."

She gulped, looking up to the portrait from tear-veiled eyes. "Forgive me," she whispered, barely audible. It seemed as if she had completely forgotten about me in the face of the Demon whose presence lay over everything, heavily covering the room like a velvet robe. "Forgive me." Then Nunnally continued.

"I dared stand up against _Onii-sama._ I! I who was no better than Him – all He had ever sought to avert had happened because of me: I had become a puppet, Schneizel's marionette. I was as weak as I am today – surrounded by a web of lies, caught in a dark forest of masks, too weak to break myself free. Weak and blinded in more than one way. I saw my own plots, saw the advantages a success would bring – yet not the red chaos destined to break out if they failed, as was quite possible. His plan however I could not decipher until it was too late, although it was so similar to mine – although He took all the same steps I had planned – although He had noted again and again that we thought alike."

Smiling woefully she bowed her head before the portrait, then looked at me. "Of course that was not completely true. We may have thought similarly – but not alike. He has always been superior to me. _Onii-sama … Onii-sama _could have kept the Realm from breaking apart. _Onii-sama _could have avoided this unholy bloodshed, this fight betwixt brothers. This blood that stains my hands."

It was enough. "Then end it," I whispered.

"Pardon?"

I jumped up. "End it! After all, what is this war about? It's about land, no more. Give up your claims to the South if you want peace: it's obvious Charles wants it as well. Every single day you two refuse to give up, dozens, hundreds of people die for your sake! If you want to end this bloodshed, you …"

I halted. My mother's face was completely expressionless, her head slightly tilted. Then I went down on one knee and bowed my head.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I … I forgot myself. It is not for me to judge about such matters."

I felt her warm hand on my cheek and looked up. "It's alright. You are right, after all – this war must not continue. But neither can I end it."

"You're … you are the Empress. Your word is law."

"I am the Empress. My word is law as long as Schneizel agrees. No matter how much support I would have in the populace and the House of Commons – it is Schneizel who holds true power. Without the Peers, whom he controls, I cannot end this war. Did you know he's been threatening to resign several dozen times now? I have always given way. I … I don't dare rule this Realm myself …"

She lowered her gaze. "I might be by the Grace of God Empress and thrice Queen. That does not mean that I am as strong as _Onii-sama._"

Suddenly her face flushed red. "Forgive me. I am being selfish." She paused. "What will you do now?"

That question surprised me. Henry was dead … forever taken from me. Didn't that mean that everything would be like before he had raised he up?

I did not reply and my mother made practical suggestions.

"I understand it will be impossible for you to continue working with Schneizel?"

"... I'm sorry, but I really cannot continue to study peacefully under the man … Henry's blood stains his hands."

"I am just as guilty as Schneizel is," my mother gently claimed.

"Then whose signature is on the death warrant?," I responded fiercely.

We were silent for a moment.

"The question is – can you stay at court without turning insane?"

In another situation I'd have laughed at her phrasing.

I looked to the floor. Could I?

"You … you just said it yourself. The Imperial Court is a web woven from lies, a dark forest of masks. No one ever says what he means. Anyone … almost anyone would be prepared to stab me from behind should it come advantageous. I … I can't bear that."

"It's all right … neither can I."

I frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

Suddenly Nunnally's face brightened. "Faramond," asked she, "I wonder … if you'd enjoy to go to Japan for some time?"

"Japan?," I exclaimed surprisedly. Now here had Henry and I tried to flee there, to our demise …

"Yes. There is – in Tokyo – a Britannian school owned by a good friend of mine … Ashford Academy. It's truly a marvellous place – though somewhat odd –, in the heart of the city, yet in the green, and also the best school in all Japan." She smiled tenderly. "Faramond … would you like that?"

I could only nod silently.

* * *

><p>When the door closed behind him, the smile vanished from Nunnally's face.<p>

For a moment she just sat there, looking after her son, then she stared at _Onii-sama _again, sighed. _Forgive me. _She drew her wheelchair closer, lifted herself into it, then wheeled to her bedchamber.

Unholy room, resting place of tyrants.

A surprisingly fluffy rug displayed the Realm's flag, the ceiling was decorated with golden hibiscuses, lilies, thistles, shamrocks and Tudor roses, and the artfully panelled walls were adorned with paintings of dead monarchs. Here as well was a Lelouch, directly above her bed – the painting she loved more than any other image of her narcissistic, photogenic, wonderful brother. It was by Clovis, watercolour on canvas. Slight _sfumato _in bright colours, Lelouch as a child, all in white, the raven hair messy as always, in the park of Aries Villa, surrounded by flowers, a serene smile on His lips. Peaceful.

Nunnally moved her wheelchair to the bedside, painfully moving her fragile body onto it. Finally she lay on the white sheets, breathing heavily. For a moment she rested, trying to relax, then she opened the uppermost drawer of the bedside cabinet.

She noticed that her hands were trembling.

And there it was – there was the rosewood casket, without decorations, perfectly plain. Nunnally took the casket and opened it.

The glassy vial shimmered in the moonlight.

_Give me oblivion._

With trembling fingers she screwed all pieces together.

_Give me absolution._

One last look at the painting. In the room's darkness Lelouch's childlike, unworried smile seemed to give her a disapproving gaze, or was that just …

_Give me peace_.

Nunnally Lamperouge applied the object to her wrist and pulled the trigger.

_Give me back my past._

First it was icy cold, then hot as the liquid shot through her veins. The injector slipped from her shivering hands and fell to the floor, Nunnally fell back into the soft pillows of her bed. The flowers on the ceiling above her seemed to fall down on the girl, the dead emperors on the paintings making sable faces and

"_Onii-sama …," she whispered when they finally were back in the safety of her room and He gently surrounded her in His embrace. "Thank you."_

_More words, that she knew, were unnecessary. How else could she express her thankfulness for her rescue – than by this short word, a hug, a kiss?_

_Only now that she was safe and with her brother again she noted how great the danger had been – enchained below a pendulum bomb, deep below the school buildings, where the sewage systems of the metropolis met? The hostage of a madman? Her life depending on a game of chess? _

_Lelouch gently stroked her back. His voice surrounded her like a silken ocean, a gaudy play of colours in her world's eternal darkness. "Do not be afraid. You are safe now. I will not allow anything to happen to you."_

_She was not afraid. She was safe now. She knew that Onii-sama would never allow anything to happen to her._

"_What did he want? This Mao, I mean?," she quietly asked._

"_Do not worry about that now. Mao … was a sick man, a madman that thought C.C. was his."_

_Onii-sama did not continue, but she could read His mind like a book – and His phrasing frightened her. "Was?," she calmly asked, "What did you and Suzaku-san do to him?"_

_Lelouch kept silent, yet it was obvious. She drew Him closer, bedding her head on His shoulder. He gently stroked her hair, lost in thoughts._

"_Do you still desire a gentle world?," He abruptly asked. _

"_That'd be wonderful."_

_Once again Nunnally wished she could see His smile. Onii-sama's smile had always been beautiful and she could feel his satisfaction. Certainly He was smiling now_

"_Come now, Nunnally," He whispered, "Do sleep. You had an exhausting day."_

_Without offering resistance she let her brother dress her in a nightgown and carefully tuck her in bed. Tenderly He kissed her brow. "Sleep tight, my Nunnally."_

_But she clasped His wrist and held Him. "Don't go, Onii-sama. Please … please stay with me tonight."_

_For a moment she could almost feel His silent contemplation. "All right. Give me a moment."_

_He kissed her knuckles, then rose from her bedside and left the room for a moment to slip into a pyjama. Finally He returned and lied down to her side._

_Immediately Nunnally nestled to her brother and covered them both with the duvet._

"_We have been together so little lately," she whispered without it being an accusation, only an expression of sadness. "You have been away all the time. Rivalz-san said that you don't even go gambling with him any more … Milly-san thinks you have a girlfriend. Please, Onii-sama, tell me what you are doing." _Tell me she's wrong_, she silently added, immediately scolding herself for her selfishness. _

_Lelouch did not reply._

"_Whatever you do … it's dangerous, is it not?"_

"_It's for you!," He burst out. "I … I am sorry, but I cannot tell you. But you have to believe me that it is all for you."_

_Nunnally buried her face at His chest. "I beg you, Onii-sama … don't endanger yourself for me. I could not bear anything happening to you."_

_He did not answer, only gently stroking her hair, and she knew this was the only answer she would get._

_She kissed Him on the lips._

"_Stay with me, Onii-sama …"_

_Again she kissed Him, this time He returned it without a moment of hesitation._

"_Stay with me."_

_And her hand found its way downwards without Him noticing._

"_I love you, Onii-sama …"_

_And everything was well. Her lips were where they belonged, her hands where they belonged. Lelouch gasped when He felt her hand caressing him, broke the kiss._

"_Stop …" Nunnally kissed Him again. "Why should I, Onii-sama? I love you, and you love me. What greater expression of our love?"_

"_Because … it's wrong. I'm your brother. We shouldn't be doing this."_

"We love what we know, we love what we are. Common cause, common cause, common cause of mouth, eye, ear, tongue, hand, nose, flesh, heart and soul. _I love you. That is man. Don't you love me back?"_

_Lelouch hesitated – _

"Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt my love. _I love you. I will always love you. Still – we … we mustn't …"_

_As Nunnally pressed her brother back into the pillows she nearly had to laugh. A blind, crippled girl defeating her big brother … _

"_Relax, be calm, oh Onii-sama. Surrender to me, for this one night …"_

_Again she kissed Him, entangling His tongue in a keen dance._

"Imparadis'd in one another's arms … _Surrender yourself to me, Onii-sama. Let me have this night."_

_And He surrendered to her._

nothing was like before.


	17. 16th Chapter: Ashford

**Sixteenth Chapter – Ashford**

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><p><em>Tokyo, Republic of Japan, United Federation of Nations<em>

_16th of January 2034 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>An airport.<p>

Not to different from the one our demise had begun and simultaneously found its catastrophe at. The signs were mostly in Japanese, but the shops, terminals and the false smiles of the counter officials were the same.

Place of leaving, place of arriving, stage of countless melodramatic scenarios, all of which had one in common: the possibility of return.

I saw many airports throughout my life, came, left, and yet – more often than not there had been no return. Surely I returned to many places, having been in Paris alone several times, however it never was a real return to those I loved.

A discreet brass plaque was reminiscent of the seizure of the airport by the Order of the Black Knights during 2018's revolution. The sun gracing the clear, cold sky above sea and skyline was large, reddish – dying. Falling. Its rays reflected on the plaque, making the few characters and the stylised chrysanthemum above shine. On a flag pole Japan's banner lazily flew.

On the parking ground long, grey rows of steel. On the horizon, shiny grey skyscrapers. All around me grey people with stories that had to be heard, but not by me, problems that had to be solved, but not by me, memories that had to be repressed, but not by me.

Lady Sayoko impatiently put her hand to my shoulder. "Let's go, Highness."

Quietly I followed her, drawing my coat closer.

Somehow we managed to find a sign reading _Lamperouge _amidst the crowd and approached it. It was held by an elderly Britannian gentleman: glasses, carefully trimmed grey moustache and hair, dressed in a black driver's uniform with golden fleurs-de-lis on its collar.

"Lord Lamperouge, Ms Shinozaki?," he politely inquired. We confirmed. The chauffeur slightly bowed. "If you would kindly follow me …" Without another word he led us to a jet-black limousine in some distance.

I sat by the window, Sayoko silently typing something on her PDA. Streets flew by, the houses growing taller and taller into the sky. I had read that once here had been mere ruins, genuine ghettoes, but there was close to nothing remaining from that dark era.

Henry should have been by my side now, not Sayoko – it should have been Henry I would have gone to Japan with. But Henry was dead, his ashes having been handed to his sisters by an officer of the guard without a commentary.

I should have paid them a visit, I painfully noticed. After all his dead had eventually been my fault – Schnei... the Prime Minister might have had signed the death warrant, but I could have stopped Henry … then he would have lived. Had not if eventually been the product of my selfish, foolish yearning for 'freedom' that had led Henry to his demise?

Just what was the worth of freedom if it was without him?

Façades flew by, grey houses with grey people doing grey things. A businessman with a briefcase hurried by at a traffic light like an extra overdoing his role; a lady pushed a buggy. Sayoko gave a slight cough.

Suddenly the road ended before us, the driver turned right. Irritatedly I looked out of the window.

On a broad motorway we circled a vast lake embedded into a park. On the calm surface of the water the sun was reflected, distorted and curiously reddish. Amidst the waters a tiny artificial island, thereupon a very modern building of glass and steel, before it four flags: I recognised Japan, the United Federation and Britannia, the fourth one looked to me like the Red Ensign, the imperial naval and colonial war flag of the Empire.

Then I suddenly realised it: this was the crater the explosion of the first FLEIJA bomb had created … this was Tokyo's destruction. I had known that the city had not been able to fill, let alone rebuild, even half of the vast crater, but never would I have thought that Britannia had torn such a great hole into the heart of the metropolis. Just how many humans had died …?

In the parks, directly by the crater's lake, I could perceive benches, happy people. It seemed to be almost exclusively couples.

In my mind ghostly chords resounded, the beginning of the Requiem. Voices broke through the fog of sound, mystical, deep and eerie. _Requiem __æ__ternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis …_

No, … no. Nothing of the sort would happen; he was lost. Was I an Orpheus? Even he had failed to save his Eurydice. No one had power over the Hades – over the Elysian Fields … Before that judge all men were equal, regardless of all temporal honours beggars would become brothers of princes.

Yet there was no way back; we could only march in _one _direction.

Oh, how fragile a creature was man! So many weaknesses, so many flaws. A tiny case of metal was enough to end a life. Even silk could gently kill, even _words _were enough to drive us to death. _Homo hominem lupus._

The car halted. Sayoko and I got out and took the little luggage I had with me. Sayoko would return the very day.

Ashford Academy was astonishing and awing, even for someone that had grown up in the palace. The central building alone looked more like a great manor or even a palace than a school with all its classicist pillars, tall windows, pediments and leaden roofs lined with statues, and the campus would have befitted an elite university in its size. Like a floret's flourish carefully planned pathways cut through the lawn before the building we now approached. Behind it I believed to see a steeple …

I halted as I felt a weird elevation amidst the otherwise flawlessly even stone beneath my feet and looked down. Embedded into the pathway and even into the lawn was a brazen line – carved therein the words _Zone of Destruction FLEIJA 2018 _in English and Japanese.

"You're coming, sir?," Sayoko asked, checking her watch. Blushing I raised my gaze. I mumbled something apologetic, then I followed her.

Before the building three flags wearily flying in the wind: Japan to the right, Britannia to the left, between them quarterly Or and Sable a fleur-de-lis counterchanged, the banner-of-arms of the Ashfords. We entered the building. No living being was in sight; probably the day's lessons were long over.

In a hallway on the second floor we parted. "The office of the headmistress is the left door at the end of the corridor," Sayoko shortly explained and bowed. "I shall assume that you will be fine on your own from now on. I shall now return to New Haven, Your Highness." Encouragingly she smiled at me, I forced myself to return the gesture.

The office of the Duchess of Ashford was large, full of old furniture and a complete mess. The duchess herself was absent. I looked around. Above the fireplace were depicted the armorial bearings of the Ashfords, bookshelves lined the walls. Through the window behind the massive oak desk I could see the campus and the city behind that. The brazen line mercilessly cut through the terrain.

On the desk were some papers, a notebook and some photos that looked as if I really shouldn't look at them. I hung my coat to a hard chair in front of the desk and sat down.

All in all it reminded me more of my mother's office than of Schnei... the Prime Minister. It was far warmer, far more lively … I did not feel the hostile chill that surrounded me whenever I entered his offices.

The door opened, someone entered. I quickly rose and turned around. It was a middle-aged lady with flowing blond hair, mischievous deep blue eyes and a bust that threatened to blow up her navy blazer.

"Sorry, I'm somewhat late," she cheerfully said and reached out her hand.

I blinked. Trying not to stare at her breasts, I first merely stared at her in confusion, then mechanically shook her hand.

The duchess grinned widely and leaned against the window behind her desk. "I'm Milly Ashford," she introduced herself, "Welcome to Ashford Academy, Highness."

I nodded. Ashford skimmed through her papers, at once becoming serious and business-like. "So you'll attend school incognito as Alexander Lamperouge, 3rd Baron Lamperouge, am I correct?"

I nodded. Ashford looked up and frowned. I quickly added a 'yes, Ma'am'.

"Very well." She handed me a thin folder with the school's emblem of a golden fleur-de-lis on black across the desk. "In that are your timetable, the school regulations – please read it _carefully_, I hate having to explain things twice – and some helpful hints. Considering that your mother's an old friend of mine and our dorms are hopelessly overcrowded, I accommodated you in the apartment in the clubhouse … that is, in the Student Council's clubhouse. You'll have to flatshare with someone, though. You got to the Council anyway to register with the president and get your uniform and the rest of your stuff. Alright?"

I nodded, then hastily added a loud affirmation.

"The President of the Student Council has been informed of your situation, by the way. Don't worry, she can keep a secret. She'll also help you choose a club – you will have to be a member of at least one." Without a pause she added: "Do you speak Japanese?"

"Er, yes," I stuttered, "That is, somewhat."

"Your Japanese teacher will test you. About half of our students are Japanese, so you'll be on conversational level in no time. Other than that, everyone knows English and classes adhere to the North Britannian National Curriculum, in English, with Japanese as an obligatory class. You can check up on the rest on your timetable."

Without letting me answer she quickly described to me the way to the Student Council, which apparently was still in session, reminded me that I had no privileges whatsoever and then sent me off.

Only when the door closed behind me I noticed why I was here and why I was alone. I gulped.

The clubhouse in the outsets of the campus was more of a full-fledged villa. The door was open and I entered. In the vast entrance hall, in which (according to some buffet tables moved to the corner without cleaning them and some speakers) apparently a party had recently been held, was no trace of a living soul. Trying my luck I moved up the stairs to the gallery and knocked on the door behind them.

Instead of an answer I heard a surprised scream and laughter. Someone said something, then again laughter. Once more I knocked, then I pushed down the handle.

In a big room four teenagers were seated around a long table full of documents. That is, actually only two of them sat – a girl who was the spitting image of the duchess had apparently found it funny to grope another girl's chest – that one was petite, dark-haired and dark-skinned with Asian features. A pair of apparent twins, a boy and a girl, both with blazing red hair and blue eyes sat by the table, laughing at their friend's attempts to free herself and keep the other girl from groping her breasts.

I blinked.

The sole boy noticed me, calling something in Japanese to the blonde, who then stopped harassing her friend.

She looked at me, grinning. "Hi," she greeted, drawing me across the doorstep. "You'll be Alex."

"A new student?," the boy concluded, seeing that I did not wear a uniform. I insecurely confirmed.

"Could take a while, just sit down somewhere," the blonde girl suggested. "I'm Kate, by the way; if you call me Catherine I'll scratch your eyes out. I'm the God-Empress here."

The other Council members rolled their eyes. Kate opened a cabinet in the corner and foraged in it until she returned with a pile of clothes – several black uniforms, ties and shirts, training and winter clothes … – and two shoulder bags (all with the school's emblem, of course). She carelessly threw them onto the table. One of the bags was suspiciously loud.

"Isn't that a notebook case?," I awkwardly asked, pointing at a flat black cloth bag with an embroidery of the omnipresent fleur-de-lis.

Kate threw me an amused look. "Of course," she laughed. "You know, there's a reason a year at Ashford is more expensive than a manor in New Haven."

I had to smile – despite everything. "So, why are there any students left whose parents can afford it?"

Kate shrugged and pointed at the girl she had just groped. "Well, our little Chigusa here's the daughter of President Ogi, who's been in politics since the Black Rebellion. Naoto and Shirley Kozuki-Weinberg" – the twins (Shirley mumbled something along the lines of "just Kozuki is fine, thanks") – "for one don't have to live on campus, for another, their parents' pay at the Black Knights respectively the Imperial Army is probably enough to go independent as freelancer generals. And the marvellous I," again she grinned, "is the God-Empress, as I said."

Naoto rolled his eyes. "Which is to say, she's Lady Ashford's daughter."

Kate threw him a killing glance, then pointed her finger at me. "While we're at it, this is Alexander Lamperouge. Say, Alex, you're good at calculating?"

Surprised I retreated a step. "Er, good enough, I guess …"

She clicked her fingers. "Awesome!" Without hesitating she passed me a thick pile of documents and a pen. "If you would just fill those in, it's all easy stuff."

Mechanically I took up the pen. "Er, why again?"

"Because … um … 'cause I say so and I'm really, really busy with very important … stuff."

"But it rather looks as if you're rasping your nails …"

"Welcome to the Student Council!," she cheerfully called out. Shirley threw me a pitying glance, her brother laughed, Chigusa suggested not to disagree if I enjoyed my health. Kate put her feet on the table. Sighing I gave in to my fate and began to fill in the forms.

After a while, hasty steps on the hallway interrupted the (more or less) concentrated silence. The door was opened, another girl entered, out of breath from running.

"Sorry, I was delayed …"

… and my breath caught. Yes, I know, it sounds horribly clichéd, but she left me completely breathless. The girl was quite tall and lean, had long, silky, raven hair. Her face and her entire body were perfectly proportioned, her nose straight and small, her lips entirely flawless and alluring – yet the most beautiful about her, the thing that had caught my eyes and would not let them go henceforth, were her eyes – two intelligent golden orbs that seemed to both gently embrace me and violently pierce through all the layers around my innermost. She wore Ashford's uniform – a white blouse, cream-coloured blazer, a dark tie with the lily and a black miniskirt – and its shoulder bag.

She halted abruptly, stared back at me. "You're sitting on my chair," she then deadpanned and the enchantment was broken. I jumped up, blushed, took another one. She sat.

"So, anything special happened?," she asked the other Council members. It was obvious that she meant 'Why the hell is that guy here?'.

"Our _beloved _Madam President's having us handle all the work again. Budget stuff, again," Shirley instead answered. Kate grinned, the newcomer uttered a French curse. "And that's Alex, who has just been condemned to joining the Council."

Immediately her behaviour changed completely, as if she had taken off a mask and put another on.

"Welcome," she greeted me with a ravishing smile. "I'm Jeanne, Jeanne Ptolemy."

I stuttered something along the lines of 'Nice to meet you'.

"Jeanne's pretty new here as well," Kate cheerfully explained. "Came from France in November."

Zestfully she took her feet from the table and clapped her hands. Chigusa winced. "Sooo …," Madam President began, "Now that Alex is an official member of the Student Council …"

I interrupted her: "Er …"

"… we'll have to celebrate it, of course!," she continued without noting my objection. "Naoto, if you would get the champagne?"

I cleared my throat as Naoto already rose from his chair, submitting to her orders. "Er, actually I don't particularly feel like having a party …" Henry's death had been but three weeks ago. And even if it had been years – I doubted I could ever _celebrate _as if nothing had happened.

Immediately the smile on Kate's face vanished. There was an icy silence in the room. Naoto halted. Chigusa stopped scrawling circles on her forms. Shirley gave an awkward, suppressed giggle. Jeanne rolled her eyes.

Slowly, very slowly, Kate rose from her seat and moved around the table until she stood just behind me. The others followed her with their eyes, I did not dare move. "Listen, Alex," she sweetly began, "We've got a rule here …" She lowered her head until her lips were almost touching my ear. I shuddered. "What the President of the Student Council says …," she slowly whispered, "is law."

As if nothing had happened she returned to her seat. "Well, having settled that … Naoto, the champagne?"

Inconspicuously I asked Shirley: "How _exactly _did she get that office?"

The redhead strongly shook her head. "You don't want to know."

"Er, yes I do."

Shirley threw Kate a glance. "She couped against the former Council in her first year in high school."

"She … _couped_?!"

"Told you so. You don't want to know the details …"

Naoto returned, two bottles of obviously expensive champagne in his hands. "Hey, a friendly warning. Stay away from my sister," he warned offishly and put down the bottles. Immediately I drew back. Jeanne sniggered.

"But Madam President!," Chigusa objected, "We … we mustn't drink alcohol yet."

Madam President brushed the objection aside with a depreciative gesture. "Déjà-vu …," she merely mumbled. "Hopefully the cork won't explode, I feel like that's happened before …"

I had the feeling that she pointed the bottle directly at me as she opened it.

The probability of the cork of a bottle of champagne randomly exploding is relatively tiny – it is about one per cent. The probability for the cork to fly more than a metre is about ten per cent. That equals: correct, a probability of 0.1 per cent that the cork would explode _and _fly far enough to hit me. And that figure – one to a thousand for those bad at percentages – is even ignoring the possibility of it failing to hit me.

And yet – is it not the sole possible way, the sole solution, is it not actually _right _for the cork to hit me directly in the face? Is it not, in a certain, fated way, _unthinkable _for it to coldly, anticlimactically, untouched by the laws of dramaturgy and fate, fall down on the table? Would that not be the final breach of all expectations and the deathblow to Chekhov and his gun?

Well, contrary to all expectations nothing happened. Kate shrugged unconcernedly and poured six glasses – including one for Chigusa, who stared at the sparkly liquid in her glass as if it would soon become vivid and sentient and attack her.

Jeanne raised her glass and nodded in my direction. "Santé." I thought I had heard an ironic undertone, but her smile was gorgeous. Kate added a lively "Cheers!"

I blushed and lowered my gaze. We drank. The wine was surprisingly good, nothing one would expect in a school.

"So … where're you sleeping tonight?," Jeanne eventually asked, leaning forwards, resting her pretty chin on a slender hand. I could only guess if the question was meant to be ambiguous. Again I felt completely enchanted by the eyes now piercing through me (for lack of a better word) _incredibly seductively. _A slight smile played about her lips, casually she elegantly ran her hand through her hair.

I had the awkward feeling that each and every of her movement was exactly adapted to one sole purpose.

I chose the safest answer. "Er, I've been told I'd live in the flat here in the clubhouse …"

This brought me some weird looks from Chigusa and the twins. Jeanne's face fell. Kate did not even bat an eyelash.

"Interesting," Jeanne noted, suddenly cold as ice. Her English was perfect, even though one could hear a slight French accent. It was obvious she tried to suppress this accent and was irritated by it. "Me too."

I almost let go of my glass. Was that supposed to be some kind of joke? Yet neither on hers nor on the faces of the others could I perceive the slightest trace of it not being true. My throat went dry.

"_Why exactly _is it again that you get the best apartment on campus?," Naoto asked with disbelief, thus freeing me from my paralysis. I had the distinct feeling that he had taken my short talk with his twin sister amiss.

Still, good question. Why, actually? Had not it been agreed that I would be but one student amongst equals? And why exactly would I share a room with a girl …? Could it be _they _… no, they would not, could not know anything. I stared at Kate, who winked at me conspiratorially and then continued doing her nails.

"Er, Lady Ashford said the dorms were packed …," I lamely answered.

"What do you even complain?," the president came to my aid, playfully poking Naoto. "It's not as if the Kozukis live in poor circumstances … by the way, how about you guys invite us again, now that your mother's away in Naples for SC-UNIFON?"

Shirley laughed, conciliatory. "We'll see what can be done, right, nii-chan?"

Naoto uttered something in Japanese I did not understand, probably a curse. Kate practised her villainous laugh, utterly melodramatic.

I threw Jeanne a glance. She had already turned back to her forms, her champagne glass was empty.

Behind the jet-black veil of her silky hair I believed to see an amused smirk.

* * *

><p>Jeanne opened the flat's door and entered. Sheepishly I followed her. I felt like I was intruding –<p>

Silently she switched on the light and led me to the dining room. Even here stucco, high ceilings, antique furnishings, though it did not look peculiarly lively. Jeanne leaned against the table and looked at me, apparently waiting for me to say something.

"A few rules," she then abruptly said. "Firstly: I'll always be first to use the bathroom."

I nodded.

"Secondly: You will _not _touch the piano in the living room."

I nodded.

"Thirdly: If you enter my room without permission or if I notice that you were in my room – don't worry, I _will_ notice – I will sadly have to hurt you very, very much."

I nodded.

Jeanne smiled (all went black for a moment) and pleasantly clapped her hands. "Très bien," said she, "Having done that, how about I show you your room, then?"

For anyone having the slightest doubts, it was the smaller one.

I thanked Jeanne for the _friendly_ welcoming, closed the door and took a look around. Tall windows; I could well imagine the room full of hot golden light in the daytime. A large bed in the centre of the room, two bedside tables, a desk, chair, a low dresser.

I carefully put down the notebook and the shoulder bag on the desk, then tried on one of the black uniforms – it fit perfectly. I wondered who had given Ashford my clothes sizes.

Then I skimmed through the drawers of first the desk, then the dresser, then the bedside tables. When I was done I could probably have created a complete inventory of the objects in the room – I liked to know all there was to know about my environment.

Two ballpoint pens, plotting and writing paper. A glossy brochure of the school, an old battery in the corner of one drawer … and a paper crane under the dresser.

Confusedly I took it, had to cough. Dust rose, made my eyes tear and finally slowly descended unto the desktop.

Carefully I traced the precise fold lines of the crane. The paper was obviously old, the colour long faded – once it would have been pink, now it was a slightly rosy white, at best … Just like in old colour plates of places where the first Europeans had been drunk from colours, a white with a tiny drop of pink, a glass of water one thought to taste a tiny tiny tiny drop of pure champagne in …

I turned the crane around. Someone had with blue ink written something on the bird's right wing, but the ink had faded so much that I could only read a few spidery letters.

Carefully I put the crane down on the desk. I did not know origami, however had seen such figures in the slender hands or in the apartments of the Empress sometimes.

I wondered who had folded it. I imagined a young girl folding paper, hour for hour, therein ardently praying to the gods until her fingers were bloodied; and, smiling, I imagined her wish being fulfilled. Though, would she then have thrown the crane under the dresser?

In the lowermost drawer I was surprised to find my cloak and sword of the Order of the Requiem. Sayoko?

Finally I had tucked my clothes and most important books away and set up my chess set on the desk, then I turned to the laptop Kate had given me. It was still wrapped in a protective foil, yet completely charged. When I started it, a collage of the campus and of course the arms of the Ashfords appeared on the screen. Some programs were pre-installed and I did what I had been planning to do: I opened an internet search engine and entered "Jeanne Ptolemy".

I didn't find much. Pardon, let me correct myself: I was drowned in links on the Greco-Egyptian royal dynasty of Ptolemy. Within half an hour I had found that Cleopatra VII had been her father's lover and her brother's wife, the latter of whom she had killed and overthrown; shortly afterwards – I failed to understand the connection to my search words – I skimmed through the French translation of Sophocles' _Oidipous Tyrannos_, created by a certain Jeanne Foche, baroness of the Empire.I tried to narrow down the search with "Jeanne Ptolemy Ashford" and finally got something – her name, date of birth, photo and a short statement on why she enjoyed working on the Student Council on Ashford Academy's homepage.

I had to laugh at myself. Just what was I doing? I behaved like some sort of creepy stalker. What had I actually wanted to find out? There were no indications whatsoever to justify such a witch-hunt.

_Still, _noted a quiet, piercing voice in the back of my head, _You not finding anything is suspicious. _The voice paused to think. _To search for something without knowing anything was stupid, though. You're such a creepy stalker!_

I groaned. Apparently I was having even less luck than usual lately –

Henry stared at me, silently and wistfully, almost dunning. His marvellous blue eyes were cold and hallow, his complexion pale. Then he let out a heart-rending sigh and left.

Apathetically I stared at the desktop. Yes, indeed – I was appalling, cruel, a terrible person. His ash was not yet cold, his thoughts and memory hot and passionate – how could I dare, scum that I was, to live on like this – to laugh, to celebrate, to _live_, while he was dead?

I took the ancient crane, turned it in my hands. No – this wish had not been fulfilled. None had ever been fulfilled. Wishes – prayers – begging – but a dream.

In the hallway I heard steps, a door was locked, a shower turned on as Jeanne Ptolemy – henceforth my flatmate – occupied the bathroom.

But just what was wrong about her?


	18. 17th Chapter: Opposition

**Seventeenth Chapter – Opposition**

* * *

><p><em>Headquarters of Army Group South of the Imperial Armed Forces, Militarised Area Three, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_28th of March 2034_

* * *

><p>Slowly the Navy helicopter touched down on the airfield, raising dust. Lord Gottwald adjusted his white leather gloves. The tiny honour guard he had had assembled presented their rifles.<p>

The helicopter's door was opened and Field Marshal Cornelia, closely followed by Lord Guilford, got out. Dodging under the whirling rotor blades, they hurried towards him. Gottwald saluted.

Princess Cornelia wore full dress uniform, from the scarlet tailcoat of the guard regiments and the sabre by her side over countless orders and medals to the glittering Grand Crosses of the Orders of the Garter, Flower of America and Elizabeth III. She returned the salute and Gottwald lowered his hand.

"Welcome back, Highness. My Lord Guilford. I'm terribly sorry for not preparing anything, we didn't know when you'd arrive due to the radio silence."

Cornelia grimly nodded. "My Lord Gottwald. What's our status?"

He vaguely pointed at the soldiers of the honour guard. "Not now," he murmured, "Not here." Gottwald turned. "If you would follow me …"

They marched across the airfield towards the low grey block of buildings by its border. The Britannian flag was flattering above it, frayed and flimsy. Grey buildings, grey sky, grey mud.

Silently they passed several checkpoints, then entered the headquarters through an armoured door. The foyer was scant and empty, raw concrete everywhere. Steel doors, an elevator; Jeremiah pressed the call button.

"How was it in the capital?," he asked into the silence. The elevator's doors opened, they entered the chamber.

"… uncomfortable," she declared as they descended. "The War Office still is a right bloody mess. Corrupted to the core … Which is why the logistics barely worked in December – I left Thomas up there to reorganise."

"Well, what about Parliament? Did the Commons play along?" To answer to the lower house for a proposed doubling of the National Home Defence Tax had been the primary reason for Cornelia's visit to New Haven.

The princess helplessly shrugged. "Had someone told me ten years ago that the rabble would one day _dare _treat a royal and imperial princess of the blood of Eowyn like this, I wouldn't have believed it. They showered me with cheeky inquiries and accusations … If I were aware of what they called 'war crimes' committed by our forces, if I were aware that 73 per cent of the populace were against a continuation of the war …" She snorted. "Not to mention those smug accusations that we'd reached a deadlocked stalemate." The lift's doors opened and they stepped out to the core of the headquarters. Some staff officers rose from their workplaces to greet them, the Work Group Logistics didn't even look up from their computers.

Gottwald ordered the officers to leave them alone. They obeyed without opposition. One after another they retired to the adjacent rooms of staff.

Guilford looked at his princess, still quiet. She nodded slightly. Then he bowed and followed the officers. Only when the door had closed behind him, Cornelia continued.

"You know, Jeremiah, on the third day an MP seriously proposed a motion to – and I quote – _abolish the monarchy and vest the powers of the Crown in an elected transitional head of state, appoint an embassy to the South to arrange an instant ceasefire and establish a war crimes tribunal._" She scoffed. "And I think they'd have gone through with that if the Speaker hadn't expelled the traitor in time."

Disgusted, Jeremiah grimaced. "Sickening. I do hope you took a company of the Guards and dispersed the talking-shop?"

Carelessly she stripped off her gloves and threw them on the map table, between the third and the fifth trench system. "I'd have loved to. I really would have loved to do it … But Nunnally refused to dissolve Parliament."

He nodded understandingly. "She's too nice, I guess. But … did you get the money?"

"They doubled the tax, as ordered, however grudgingly. 150 billion Pounds they granted to us outside the budget and Nunnally added twenty billions from the Crown Estates."

Jeremiah nodded took a much-read print-out from his uniform's pocket. "Williamson's analysts have revised their prognosis," he noted. "It was rather expensive to evacuate our bridgeheads, not to mention the material losses we suffered during our retreat to the Atrato River. They assume up to 500 billion Pounds to replenish our losses and rebuild our defences."

Cornelia didn't look up from the maps on the table. "Tell Williamson to do twice the work with half his current budget or step aside … You guys lost Height 734?"

"In a skirmish last week." He leaned in and pointed at some other points on the map. "The rainy season has been harsher than expected this far. The Atrato burst its banks and flooded the first trench here, here and here. We drew back to the second one for the time being."

Cornelia nodded and thoughtfully traced the front-line with her finger. "Not much else happened, right?" Jeremiah shook his head. "And what about our … _other _project?"

Abruptly the temperature in the underground command centre seemed to fall by several degrees. It was utterly silent.

"By now I'm certain we've got several traitors," Jeremiah then quietly admitted. "I went through the fifteen incidents you ascribe to treason again and again. Not counting ourselves, there were 852 officers aware of all the details – however only 18 who knew them for all fifteen plans."

Cornelia looked up and frowned, irritated. "18 … still far too many. Well, at least that makes it simpler. Who is it?"

"Look for yourself."

Slowly he handed her the folded print-out. For a moment the princess stared at him, then at the paper.

"I won't like it, right?," she dryly asked. Then she took the print-out, unfolded it and skimmed through the short list.

Jeremiah closely watched her as she read. He didn't want to miss her reaction – and indeed, there it was. Tiny, understated, but there it was: a twitching temple, a hand brushing a streak of hair aside.

Cornelia slowly put the sheet of paper down on the map table. "So, what do you think?," he inquired.

"Difficult," she admitted after a long pause. "Our investigation will be delicate. There's not a single suspect _not _a highly-decorated war hero on this list. An open investigation would be political suicide."

Jeremiah sternly looked her in the face. It was completely silent except for the quiet humming of the computers. "Will I have to remind you of your vow, Cornelia?"

She grimaced. "I know, right. _To safeguard the peace and protect Britannia's immortal blood-line._ Will I have to remind you I'm your commanding officer, my Lord Knight of One?"

"This is not a military issue, Cornelia, we already agreed on that. It's about the safety of the Realm and, far more importantly, about Nunnally."

"I believe, Jeremiah, you are forgetting I didn't join the Order to worship Lelouch," Cornelia coldly responded, "Contrary to you and Nunnally."

"So you'd send your own sister, who before God is your sovereign Empress, to doom … to win this war?"

Cornelia frowned and lowered her gaze for a moment. "… if it is necessary to save Britannia … perhaps. There is nothing I am more afraid of than the idea I could _lose _this war. You know it would be the first. And I can assure you, Jeremiah Gottwald, that I shall and will not rest before the Empire is reunited and the one responsible dead."

* * *

><p><em>Tokyo, Republic of Japan, United Federation of Nations<em>

_14th of April 2034_

* * *

><p>Dully I stared at the problem. <em>To describe the electric processes during a thunderstorm, a charged thundercloud at 1.5 km together with the ground is to be simplified as a "natural plate condenser" with an area of 15 km². The lower side of the cloud relative to the ground has a potential of <em>_ϕ = –3.0 __· 107 V. As the air is still dry in the beginning, the capacity can be calculated as with a condenser in a vacuum. Ascertain the capacity and the charge of this condenser as well as the electric field intensity E._

I gulped. Okay, read it once more. I understood as little as before. Then I got out my physics textbook to look up the words _plate condenser_, _potential_, _capacity, condenser _and _electric field intensity_. I looked out of the window.

It was one of the first warm days after a long, cold winter. On the vast lawns of Ashford Academy's campus sat groups of students, enjoying the sun. Tokyo's skyscrapers where glistering in the bright daylight. Once more I looked at the problem.

It seemed extraordinarily uninteresting.

It had soon become evident that while in the sciences I lagged behind several _years_, I had already done most of the subject matter in languages and humanities. I thought that the Prime Minister probably had had some sort of aim in mind with the one-sided composition of my education, though I couldn't think of what exactly that might have been. Again I stared at the worksheet, carefully re-read every single word and sought for clues.

I didn't understand a word.

It was rather warm in my room, despite the wide-open windows. Perhaps I should go outside to the park?

I heard steps in the hallway and frowned. Jeanne had left for the city only minutes ago. Had she forgotten something?

Suddenly my door was flung open. Yes, definitely Jeanne.

„How dare you hide in here?," Kate cried. I winced and turned.

„Er, homework …," I sheepishly said. Kate dismissively waved her hand.

„Don't care. Sun's shining, stupid. You're gonna come out with me, now. You can ride a horse, of course?"

I blinked. „Sure, but I've got homework to do …"

Without so much as blinking, Kate took my physics worksheet and threw it in the bin beside my desk. „Done … oh, you play chess?" I followed her gaze. The slick marble chess set in the corner of the desk gleamed in the bright sunlight. I nodded. „Yes, but …"

„Are you good?," she interrupted, drew the board closer and sat on the table's edge.

I blushed. „Well, I guess I'm okay …," I murmured. „But I really, really have to continue with my …"

Kate only said „I'm white" and … e2-e4.

„... homework," I irritatedly completed my sentence.

Pause.

„CHECK!," Kate then cried and I winced.

„What … what's that supposed to be?! You only just made your _first move_!," I complained.

„So what? If you don't play, you lose. Now, check!"

For a moment I stared at her, expressionless. Then I sighed. „I don't have a choice, do I?" Kate smirked. I glanced at the board, then played the usual move, e7-e5. If I had to play, I would do it quickly.

Click, clack, click. Swiftly we moved. She wasn't bad, but neither particularly good – though her moves generally were good, there always was a counter she didn't think of. Click, clack, click …

The rapid exchange of blows took around five minutes. I moved my remaining bishop to f3. „Check," I said. Mate in five. Kate uttered a curse, she had seen her mistake.

„You're better than I thought," she angrily murmured. Then she jumped up, smirking at me. „All right, I've won. Come with me."

„W…what?!," I managed to stutter, then Kate took my hand and drew me out through the door. I stumbled after her, out of the flat down to the foyer, she ignored my confused questions. Her hand was closed around mine in an iron grip. Only when we had left the clubhouse, she let go of me.

„What … what the heck was that supposed to be?," I asked, out of breath. Kate turned towards me, smirking slyly. „Now we'll profit from your talent. Don't worry, we'll do fifty-fifty."

* * *

><p>The bouncer grimly folded his arms. Kate gave him a sweet smile. I tried to hide behind her. „You can't tell me you're eighteen," he snarled. He was at least two heads taller than I and probably thrice as heavy.<p>

My attempts to signify Kate that we should scarper were ignored.

„Well, perhaps that's not _quite _true," Kate cheerfully continued. „But, hey, who cares if we're under-age – we just want to go in and play; doesn't hurt anyone, does it?"

The gorilla frowned. „Forget about that," he snarled. „You're not getting in here."

I nodded and put a hand on Kate's shoulder. „Come on," I murmured, „let's go. I told you this wouldn't work."

Kate didn't move a bit. „Hey, are you actually content with your life?," she asked the gorilla. I winced and looked around the deserted side street, no one in sight. Didn't look as if we had a particularly large chance to live to tell the tale.

„I'm just saying, you certainly could earn much more somewhere else," Kate cheerfully babbled on. „How much do you earn?"

The gorilla hesitated. He was at least two metres tall and just about cubic. Bald head, large blond moustache. Probably a child of Britannian settlers, fallen out of grace after the revolution.

„Can't be much, can it? Just enough to survive?," Kate insisted. Slowly, the bouncer nodded. „Now, that wasn't too hard, was it. You know, you could earn a lot more. We _Ashfords _know what we owe our friends …"

Something about the way she stressed her surname irritated me. Two thoughts sprang to my mind: firstly, how could she rely on her parents this strongly. Secondly, Ogodogodogodwe'renotgonnasurvivethat.

The gorilla snorted. I retreated a step.

Then the bouncer stepped aside and let us in. „Well, it's not as if hadn't let in a student already today …," he murmured. „In you go. Enjoy yourselves."

Kate threw me a triumphant glance. I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't hide my relief. We entered the gambling den.

We stepped down a staircase. It took a moment for my eyes to get used to the dim light. It was not how I had imagined – there was a greasy bar behind which a man was boredly cleaning glasses, some blinking slot machines in the corner. There were no gamblers in sight. I threw Kate a confused glance.

"I thought this might be all right for starters," she justified herself. "They're playing for surprisingly high stakes in the back room, I heard."

"But … how are we even supposed to keep up with it?," I murmured uneasily as we already stepped into the back room.

"Nonsense," Kate only replied. "Just sell one tiny diamond from your coronet … or Newfoundland. Something like that."

I sighed and looked around. Here were no machines, only two long rows of chess tables and comfortable-looking armchairs. Clocks on small side-tables. Five games were in progress, about a dozen further patrons stood around one of the tables observing the game. I couldn't see who was playing.

With an expert's eye, Kate chose one of the onlookers. "This one's looking perfect," she mentioned and approached him straight away. I had long left the state of wanting the ground to open and swallow me up.

Kate tapped the man on the shoulder and challenged him – in _my _name, not in hers. My head was swimming, I sat down at one of the free tables.

The man came and sat on the other side, though quite puzzled at being challenged by a student. "Leonato Dogberry," he politely greeted in spite of the obviously false name and reached out his hand. I shook it, short and weakly. I was trembling. "A...Alexander Lamperouge."

"How about 50,000 Pounds for the beginning?," he suggested. He looked like money personified, dressed in a bespoke suit in which he wouldn't have looked under-dressed even at Court.

I gulped. What if I lost? I hadn't been planning to drop my alibi this soon … I opened my mouth – "100,000 and it's done," said Kate. I stared at her, completely dumbfounded. She winked.

Before I could so much as shake my head, my opponent agreed. He was to be white. The clock was started. He took his pawn and moved e2-e4.

I stared at Kate, who was enthusiastically looking on, then at my opponent. I thought of my matches against the Prime Minister, Jeremiah and Henry. Then I took up one of the black pawns and moved it. e7-e5.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later I was a nervous wreck, five litres of cold sweat poorer and one hundred thousand Britannian Pounds richer.<p>

Exhausted, I fell back into the comfy pillows of the armchair, closed my eyes for a moment and deeply breathed in. Kate triumphantly handed my opponent a pen and a blank cheque, he filled it in without so much as blinking. A quiet scraping as he signed it.

Kate reached for it, but suddenly my opponent drew it back. "I don't know how you could defeat me, punk," he snarled. "There's no way a mere student could have defeated me like this … how the hell did you do it?"

I opened my mouth to protest – I had won fairly. Then I closed it again, waited.

"Listen. I am a gentleman, I won't make a scene. You will play again, now – I am the second-best player here. I'll set you up against the best. If you win again, you get your money. Alright?"

I hesitated, then looked at Kate. "But … he _won_!," she hissed. "You promised! How should he have cheated, pray tell?!"

I lowered my gaze. Just what were my options? I could resign the money and leave – but I didn't want to disappoint Kate who had been so enthusiastic about all this. I could insist on the money – but probably they'd just throw us out. Or I could accept his offer –

Well, what there the stakes?, I thought as I began to put the chessmen back on their places. It was not more than with my first game. One hundred thousand pounds I actually couldn't afford. But … I had played beaten the Prime Minister to a draw, and this man didn't even come near him. Perhaps the best player in the casino was closer to the Prime Minister, but … it was a risk I had to take.

I nodded, mumbling "done".

"But … _what_?! Alex, that … you can't just let him do that to you! You bleeding _won_! C'mon, let's go …"

I ignored Kate, raised my gaze. "I shall play," I only said. "Against whom?"

The man smirked. "One moment, please."

He rose, went over to the table surrounded by spectators. Kate leaned in to me. "What the heck you're aiming at?," she hissed into my ear. "If this is all to impress me or something …"

I blushed. I hadn't even thought of this, and it probably wouldn't have worked, either. "N…no!," I quickly denied it. "It's nothing like that."

"What then? I don't believe you suddenly are after the money."

Again I shook my head. "No, it's not the money … I don't quite know. I … lost so often. I want to … I must take this chance."

Kate wanted to answer, however broke off when the small group of spectators around the table in the corner in its entirety came over to us. I blushed. "Thanks for caring, though," I only managed to whisper in Kate's direction.

About a dozen people … my last opponent was speaking with another player in their midst I couldn't see. Kate and I looked up expectingly as they stood around our table, yearning for entertainment.

A figure left the shadows and stepped forth to the chess table, elegantly sat in the armchair. If she was as flabbergasted as we were, she didn't show.

It was a very young woman, not older than Kate and I. She wore a flouncy black dress; casually she brushed aside a streak of raven hair. I gulped, as always I was in danger of drowning in her golden eyes.

"I'm not quite sure," she admitted, apparently entirely unmoved by the vicissitudes of statistics. "It does seem rather surreal. _Naturellement_, irony of fate, one always meets twice, dramaturgy and all that … but just how probable is it, statistically speaking, to meet you two of all people … here?"

Kate suppressed a giggle. "I'm glad to meet you, too … Jeanne."

"Wait, you know each other?!," my last opponent inquired, alarmed. Jeanne ignored him. "What are you doing here?"

"Playing, what else?," Kate retorted. "I didn't know you play chess, though. Hey, Alex, are you ready?"

Irritatedly I managed to avert my gaze from Jeanne's hypnotic eyes and looked at Kate. "Er … whence this change of mind?"

Kate smirked. "Who cares if you lose now," she cheerfully said. "It's _Jeanne_, no reason to fight for your honour or some other nonsense. If you lost, we'll just pool. After all, it was I who forced you to come here."

Jeanne amusedly raised an elegant black brow. "So, what will it be, Alex? 30 minutes for each. Will you play or will you not?"

Again I turned my gaze towards her, managed to smile. I avoided looking her in the eyes, wanted to keep my head clear. For a short moment the amused smirk on her lips widened. I lowered my gaze, stared at the board.

Two times eight black soldiers were carefully lined up in front of me. An army to lead, no – a dance to win it was. They would follow me without questioning, yes – but could I just move them around? Could I damn them – and myself – to an uncertain future and near-certain death?

The Voice of Reason somewhere in the far back of the darkest corner of my mind noted that it was but a game. I ignored it.

But then again, it _was _Jeanne …

"Yes," I then firmly said. "I'll play." Then I vaguely pointed at her army, the white one. "After you."

Jeanne slightly nodded her head. "As you wish." Without hesitating she pressed the clock on my side, took up her king's knight with two long, slender white fingers. She hesitated and looked up. The white knight was hovering above the board. The audience was forgotten.

She smiled. "Good luck, Alex," she sweetly added. "You shall need it."

I silently nodded.

Clicking loudly the knight touched down on the board. "Nf3."

I deeply breathed in. Did I even want to win against Jeanne, on the risk of disgruntling her? – no, I had to, no matter what the costs might be. I wasn't even sure if I _could _win – but I would do my best.

Carefully I moved my queen's pawn to d5 and pressed the clock. Click.

Even before my hand had left the clock, Jeanne had already moved one of her pawns and hit the clock herself. g3.

King's Indian Attack … not an opening I liked, but reasonable and strong. My stomach turned as I thought of the middle game she had just dictated. It would, without fail, become a massacre.

I thought I had seen Jeanne smirk contently for a moment before she put her mask back on.


	19. 18th Chapter: Scars

**Eighteenth Chapter – Scars**

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><p><em>The City of New Westminster, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_5th of May 2034 a.t.b._

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><p>For the first time in many weeks, Nunnally, by the Grace of God Empress and thrice Queen, took a moment to examine her image in the mirror.<p>

A first worry line on her brow: herald of approaching the ageing that would soon scar her forever. Harbinger of death's pale banner. Result of the many years of war and destruction she had caused, many years of evil tidings she had declared; barely survived by the hope for deliverance and sweet remembrance.

Her flowing hair was tied together in a strict knot. The maids once again readjusted the heavy robes of ermine and purple velvet on her frail shoulders. Two hands casually placed the Imperial State Crown upon her head – she winced at its weight. Even though she had worn the crown for a few hours this morning to get used to it, the three kilos of gold and gems on her head _hurt_.

"Are you ready, Majesty?," the Lord Great Chamberlain asked, who had accompanied her into the robing room with the Earl Marshal. Cold, businesslike. Nunnally didn't avert her gaze from her twin in the mirror.

This Nunnally was a complete stranger to her. Had she seen her on the streets, she wouldn't have recognised her. The woman in the mirror intently stared back at her: _her _lilac eyes were full of determination and majesty. _Her _head was raised high, perhaps even slightly too high. The crown glistered impressively in the radiant sunlight that fell through the windows of the Palace of New Westminster.

Someone put his hands to the handles of her wheelchair and she winced in surprise. The Empress in the mirror did the same, and for a moment her mask cracked, revealing the failed traitress behind it. Then she regained her composure.

"Madam," the Lord Great Chamberlain repeated. "Are you ready?"

For a short moment she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, cold resolution had returned to the face of her sister in the mirror. Nunnally wordlessly nodded.

The grand officer turned her wheelchair around and she averted her gaze from the mirror. Her hands were convulsively clenching a fold of her dress; she tried to relax them. Two soldiers of the Horse Guards in full uniform with armour and sabre stood at attention and opened the doors before them –

The sound of creaking wood as the Peers rose from their benches. Nunnally did her best not to look at them as the Lord Great Chamberlain carefully wheeled her up to the pedestal. Then he turned her to face the Lords, her wheelchair just in front of the gilded throne, and, bowing and backwards, stepped down to the floor again.

"God save the Empress!," the Lords cried as one, as was expected of them. Like thunder the voices of one thousand Peers resounded in the hall. All eyes were on her. Her throat was dry as dirt –

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. The mask of the Empress in the mirror had cracked. She tried again – "My Lords, pray be seated."

Nunnally waited until all Peers had taken their seats again. Then she nodded to the Lord Great Chamberlain. The grand officer at her signal turned towards the open portal on the opposite end of the Peers' Chamber and raised his wand of office. The Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, who was already waiting in the lobby, turned and marched off towards the Commons.

Gulping, Nunnally looked up. Whispering amongst the Lords.

The steep rows of benches were packed. Up front to her right, on the government bench, the bishops and archbishops in black and purple. On the broad cushion a few metres in front of her throne, the woolsack, sat the Lord Chancellor and his deputies, behind them on an even larger cushions the Law Lords. On the benches hundreds of Lords Temporal in red robes lined with ermine and gold. Many were staring at her; some expressionless, others with contempt. She blushed.

She heard steps from the chamber's lobby when Black Rod returned, the lower house behind him. They were whispering amongst themselves, too, as they surged into the upper house's chamber, stopping at the Bar. The opposite end of the hall was now packed with whispering figures in dark suits with the occasional spot of colour from a woman's costume. Nunnally couldn't make out what they were talking about.

The Lord Chancellor, a fat, scarlet-faced man in flowing black robes with a powdered wig, slowly gasped his way up the few steps, laboriously knelt before Nunnally and handed her a gold-embroidered black pouch. Silently she took it and drew out the thin leather-bound booklet.

Under further bows and without averting his gaze, the Lord Chancellor carefully stepped down from the pedestal and sat on the woolsack. Then Nunnally opened the booklet in her lap.

She had learned the speech Schneizel had written by heart, but something was different than in the last years. Nunnally didn't quite know – then she noticed.

The looks the MPs gave her were blatantly hostile.

She blushed, gulped and lowered her gaze. The speech's first words blurred before her eyes –

Nunnally drew a deep breath. Then she began to read out the lies, one by one.

"My Lords and members of the House of Commons. In the eighth year of this rebellion against the authority of the Crown, which disunited my tormented Realm, I confide that every loyal subject of the Crown, every good Britannian, will do his duty to defend the nation. In this matter, my government has made great progress with the increase of the National Home Defence Tax in order to fund our war effort and the Winter Offensive. However, and in spite of the great valour demonstrated by Britannian soldiers, the Realm is still not reunited. In the next year my government will therefore take all necessary steps to further centralise the war effort, thus making it more efficient. My government will make preparations for another offensive under the command of my well-trusted and beloved servant, Field Marshal Her Imperial and Royal Highness Princess Cornelia. Following thorough considerations, my government will for the first time since the glorious Conquest of New Spain instate a national draft."

A murmur went through the assembled Parliament. In parts of the country she had, on the advice of Cabinet, decreed compulsory conscription shortly after it had become obvious that the rebellion of the South was no ordinary revolt. However it had always been confined to Area Three and some of the southernmost duchies in the Homeland. Yet after the pool of volunteers had slowly run dry, it had become necessary to take this unpopular step if she wanted to continue the war.

"Simultaneously, my government will advance the war against the traitor in the South on the home front by delegating more rights to local units of police and the National Guard. Counterespionage will be strengthened by the creation of a central intelligence agency for the supervision of subversive elements in the populace. My government will take further steps to abate the problems in supplying the metropolitan regions of the Homeland with elementary foodstuffs.

My government will furthermore shorten crisis reaction times by streamlining the participance of both Houses of Parliament in the legislative process. We will strengthen the position of the Crown against traitorous, revolutionary fanatics by removing such traitors from this Parliament. My government will extend the Imperial Emergency Acts and lower crime rates by increasing punishments for capital crimes."

She gulped. For a moment she had to pause before the outraged yelling had ended. The guardsmen flanking the throne removed five members of the opposition from the chamber.

"My Lords and members of the House of Commons. It is my wish and of absolute necessity that this war be won and the Realm reunited. Therefore, your cooperation is as necessary as that of every good Britannian in our glorious Empire. I pray that the blessings of Almighty God may rest upon your counsels; and may we never fail to seek vengeance for Edinburgh. Amen," she closed, ending with the traditional formula stemming from the establishment of the Britannian Empire.

Nunnally closed the thin leather booklet and slightly nodded her head in the direction of her audience.

Over the murmuring of Lords and Commons, the Lord Chancellor thanked her for the speech, returned the blessing and then asked the Commons to return to their chamber. Nunnally tried to ignore the hateful looks she got.

A lord of the government frontbench had risen and was assigned the right to speak.

"Your Majesty," he politely addressed her, "in the name of your government I thank you for your most gracious address. Majesty, my noble Lords, I am convinced that His Highness, the Prime Minister, made those harsh decisions only with the best intentions and after thorough consideration. However …"

Nunnally's blood froze. She had been relieved for the first question to come from the Government, had hoped to draw some assurance from a praise.

"However I must, and I believe I am speaking with the voice of this entire noble house in this, protest in the strongest possible terms against this outrageous intrusion into the ancient rights of Parliament. It is clear that this – just and reasonable – war we fight, takes some incursions and I always was a loyal supporter of Your Majesty's Government. However it is unacceptable that these measures should be decided without Parliament's consent! With all due respect, Madam, but if a bill of the sort enters the Lords, we shall have to deny approval … and I am certain that no member of this house as of the Commons will ever agree to it, even under the threat of arrest."

His last words were drowned in a choir of "Hear!". Nunnally tried a gracious nod. There was a giant lump in her throat.

After all, she hadn't supported Schneizel's agenda. On the contrary, she had always insisted on the ancient rights of Parliament, the public opinion and a quick peace based on _uti possidetis_.

Well, eventually she had had to give way – as always. Schneizel had argued and debated, had pointed out the necessity of keeping up public order and supplying more food to the civilians in the cities and had painted gloomy pictures for the event of "peace".

Then he had threatened his resignation from the office of prime minister.

For a moment she had been tempted to take him up on the offer. She knew exactly that their means of choice were diametrically opposed to each other – he cared nought for the mercy, openness, justice, freedom for all prepared to accept it, and other virtues that she tried to govern with. The Prime Minister was an obstacle to Onii-sama's vision of Britannia and the world. A relict of ancient times. And … yes, she desired to rule for herself, as much as she hated to admit it to herself.

The question had however been if she could even _survive _without Schneizel, not to mention reign. No one in the Empire knew as much about it as he did, no one had the loyalty of so many magnates. Of course, she could always ask Suzaku-san to command the Prime Minister – but that would have been a betrayal of Onii-sama, who had attempted to wipe this daemonic power of Geass from the face of the Earth. And … probably she wouldn't even have managed. How could she of all people presume to force her will upon anyone, and if it was Schneizel, this cruelly?

So she had given way.

Dozens of Lords rose as one. A frontbencher of the opposition, the Republican Party, to be exact, was given the word.

Nunnally gulped. The Republicans were admittedly out for her head, even if still represented in Parliament in their entirety – at least compared to the Patriots, of whom all the Lords and MPs had been arrested under charges of treason.

It took her a moment to recognise the lord – Baron Fairfax, she then noticed. One of only a handful Republicans in the House of Lords, and yet an ardent and experienced socialist and republican speaker.

"My Lords, there you have it: even the Government's loyal lapdogs now have abandoned the tyrant …," the Republican began. Nunnally closed her eyes and listened with great concentration as the Peer tore her speech apart.

* * *

><p><em>Tokyo, Republic of Japan, United Federation of Nations<em>

_25th of May 2034 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>"… simultaneously is the motor of political change. When, for example, the First Japanese Republic ended in 2025, this was – as you knew, had you done your homework – particularly due to the unpopularity of President Shidehara, which eventually evolved into demonstrations against the presidential system itself, then led to the resignation of Shidehara, the dissolution of Parliament and the proclamation of the Second Republic by then-Leader of the Opposition Ohgi, now President of the Republic. And what was the primary difference between the First and the Second Republic – Mr Hampson?"<p>

After a short moment of confusion Thomas Hampson jumped up. "Er … if you could repeat the question, sir?"

Professor Bewick sighed. "At least _pretend _to listen, will you … well, the difference between the First and the Second Japanese Republic?"

Kyomi whispered something to him. Naoto and Shirley Kozuki were having a chat in the back of the room. The rest of the class was dully staring out of the window or at their mobiles' displays. I tried to take notes (I was still new in Professor Bewick's class) and repeatedly caught myself doodling in my notebook instead.

"Er… an… an executive bound to… bound to Parliament?," Tom haltingly repeated what Kyomi had prompted. Bewick rolled his eyes. "Right, Ms Takada. Mr Hampson, be seated. Try to pay attention next time. This is for all of you, while I'm at it!," he added, slightly louder. "I know it's Friday and the eight lesson, but all of you _did _choose to take up Citizenship this year, and all of this _will_ be in the exam." He cleared his throat. "Now, where was I?"

"You wanted to give us the rest of the day off," Shirley gave it a try. Professor Bewick ignored her.

"Ah, yes, populism and popularity. Now, it's rather obvious what difference the opinion of the masses has on politics in democracies – especially during elections. Anyone knows a different example?"

No reaction. It was warm in the classroom. In spite of all the windows being wide open, desks and chairs were heated up by the afternoon sun.

Professor Bewick sighed and put the piece of chalk he had been playing with on the teacher's desk. "Nobody?" Further silence. Slowly I ripped out a page full of scribbles from my notebook and scrunched it up. I put down my pen.

"How about … say, the Expropriation of Britannians in Japan Act of 2024?," Bewick finally suggested.

Immediately Naoto had jumped up. Shirley put her hand on his arm, alarmed, yet he ignored his sister. "How can you even say that?!," he loudly objected. "Those bloody Brits had after all gained their riches only by exploiting the Japanese! All they had rightfully belonged to their Japanese slaves!"

Some of the students' murmurs seemed to agree with him. I looked at my notebook. I missed Henry.

Professor Bewick rolled his eyes. "You're treading on very thin ice here, young man. I won't discuss this with you, Mr Kozuki, because it would lead us off topic," he warned. "But even you cannot deny that the expropriations were ordered by President Shidehara to improve his popularity, even though it was obvious they would not only be of no economic use, but also an obstacle to Britannian integration. You know it best yourself how patchy they were: whoever made substantial voluntary donations to the government and Britannian officials all kept their property. The fact that this school still is owned by the Ashford family and that your father, Lord Gino, owns one of the greatest properties in the Settlement is amongst the best proof."

"But … that's bullshit!," Naoto yelled, outraged. "What else should they have done, eh? You britanno-fascist bastard probably wanted those Brit bastards to keep all their stolen riches while the rightful owners starve in ghettoes!"

Professor Bewick's face slowly turned reddish. I had the vague feeling that someone would say "This classroom is not big enough for the two of us". Nervously I looked from Naoto to the teacher and back again.

It had not been the first time for Naoto to get into trouble by making hasty remarks, but it was definitely the first time I had heard him openly insulting a teacher. Whilst Naoto would probably forget and forgive the perceived insult within hours, I had no idea what Bewick would do. Even with Kate's support, this would lead to more than a few hours of detention.

For a moment Naoto and Professor Bewick angrily stared at each other, waiting for the other to back down. Then Bewick opened his mouth –

A sudden, penetrating vibration eased the tension. Everyone stared at Shirley, who, completely calm, threw a look at her mobile's display and then rose.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said as if nothing had happened. Her brother threw her a surprised glance as she took her bag. "Madam President has summoned an extraordinary session of the council. Sounds rather urgent. Nii-chan, Alex, you coming?"

I blinked. That was … what? I mean … what? Then I jumped up and grasped my book bag. Naoto followed his sister. Silently he and Bewick stared at each other as they passed the teacher's desk. I tried to follow them as inconspicuously as possible.

"Detention, tomorrow, Mr Kozuki," Bewick only bellowed. Naoto ignored him. In utter silence we left the room; carefully I closed the door behind me.

Standing in the deserted hallway, Shirley stared at her brother, completely aghast. "What the hell was that supposed to be?," she hissed. "No one gives a shit. It's been ten years! But if you get the boot for this and have to leave Ashford, that's your problem. And mine, too, in case you forgot." Naoto didn't reply.

She sighed, murmured something I couldn't quite make out and shouldered her bag. "Come on, guys," she said. "We've still got about an hour before the council meeting."

I had to suppress a chuckle. No, of course Kate had not texted her – I had no clue what Shirley would have done had Professor Bewick demanded to see the message.

Instead I asked: "Expulsion, for a little insult? Isn't that a little harsh?"

Shirley shook her head as we walked along the deserted hallway. Naoto silently followed us, apparently still angry at Bewick. "It's not the 'bastard', but the 'britanno-fascist'. We're in Japan, not in the Homeland, so when race comes in, it's a little complicated. The Britannians left us eight millions of their colonists – almost a tenth of the total population, now. Most of them were only allowed to gain Japanese citizenship during the last few years, and especially the former colonial middle class has been near-destroyed by expropriations and semi-official discrimination. As the roles of oppressor and oppressed reverted, Ashford always tried to treat all students solely on the basis of their achievements and their character. Racism is a serious offence here and Nii-chan sadly has a … rather bad temper."

I gulped. I didn't know what to say – if to say something. I had known the state Japan had become free in – but not what had happened since.

Once more Lord Jeremiah's words came to memory. Back then, in the Order's chapel, it had sounded so clear and simple – the war a mere failure of the Order, the Requiem having given us ideal preconditions for a peaceful world.

Yet another lie?

The Requiem had not been able to keep up its unifying effect for more than just the first wave of joy and relief. The wounds sat too deep – Hatred and envy would ever flare up again and devour the peace. Was that Man?

One Requiem was not enough. Two were not enough. As long as there were humans on Earth, the Requiem had to be renewed.

_Splendid, _said a content voice in the back of my head which I recognised as that of Henry. _So, what now?_


	20. 19th Chapter: Confidence

**Nineteenth Chapter – Confidence**

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><p><em>Tokyo, Republic of Japan, United Federation of Nations<em>

_12th of June 2034 a.t.b._

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><p>With a relieved sigh, Chigusa closed her folder. "So, we've used only 92 per cent of our budget last year. This means we've got some 135,000 Yen left which we could use for some urgent reparations and renovations. I've been thinking of the greenhouses of the Botanic Club, which have been in need of repair for some time, then faster wireless connections in Dorm 3 – let's face it, RDT 2030 is hopelessly out-dated – and perhaps we could add something to the fund for the school trip to Narita Memorial in September the teachers are planning."<p>

She sat back in her chair. Kate nodded slowly, chewing on a pencil. "The students are supposed to pay for that one, right?"

Shirley confirmed. "Grades 11 and 12, 371 students in whole. The trip's to be some 3000 Yen per student. We could lower that a bit."

Kate frowned. "What are they paying fees for, again? Ah, well, whatever. We've got a lot of time to finish the budget over holiday."

The twins broadly grinned – they would be spending almost all of the summer holidays with their mother, who was leading the Black Knights' peacekeeping mission for the Italian Republic in Naples (why and how exactly they had decided to make beach holidays in a civil war zone, I didn't understand).

"Well, that should be the review of last years budget. Alex, you want to go next? I want to finish this tonight."

I nodded, looked down on my notes and everything went black. I looked up.

After a short pause, nervous laughter. It was a moonless night, so the Council room was bathed in a ghastly blueish light from the screen of Naoto's laptop. I could barely see the faces of the others.

"A blackout?," Shirley nervously suggested. Her brother's answer was drowned by a surprised scream from Chigusa and Kate's ensuing giggling. "S...stop that!"

I rose from my chair, bumped against the table in contribution to the general amusement and stumbled towards the window. The campus was dark, but Tokyo's skyline was brightly lit. "Perhaps it's just a blown fuse?," I suggested.

Kate gave a dry laugh. "_Just_? Chigusa, add the school's power network to your list. Alex, there's supposed to be some torches in the third locker right of the door …"

Feeling my way, I found the locker and carefully checked it. "Could you light me with the laptop?," I asked and the area was illuminated by a weak, blueish shine. I noticed two torches, got them out and turned them on. Calm, white light fell on the table. Naoto took one of them.

"Well, quite possibly you're right," Kate then said and rose. Her brightly lit face was spookily glowing in the dark. "We should take a look at the fuses down there. You're coming?"

I nodded. "Jeanne, would you happen to know if we've got candles or something in the flat?" My involuntary flatmate shook her head, naturally.

"Then we'll leave you one torch," Kate decided. "One will be enough for us. Well – bye."

Slowly we left the Council room and walked downstairs to the lavish foyer. "Of course, the elevator won't work," Kate noted. "It's been a while since I've been down there."

Quietly we passed into a closet full of dusty cleaning utensils. A fireproof door in the back. She had me get a key from out a bucket and unlocked it.

I pointed my torch into the room behind: a narrow, seemingly groundless staircase.

Lighting the way I followed Kate down the steely spiral stairs. It was a bit weird – definitely déjà-vu. It was a bit symbolic – I hadn't made it up alive last time such a thing had happened to me.

"Er … where exactly are we going?," I asked after a while. We had to be at least fifteen metres below ground …

For a moment Kate remained silent, and suddenly before her another steel door appeared from the dark. She loped down the last few steps and opened it. We stepped into the room behind it and I searched for a light switch. There was one beside the door, but it didn't react. I raised the torch.

I couldn't make out a ceiling.

The swoosh of streaming water was in the air, and also a certain stench. Not by any stretch of imagination could I imagine what kind of place this was supposed to be – certainly not a mere basement. I stepped forth, moved the torch around a bit – a concrete bridge of around two metres' width, muddy brown water on both sides below us.

I threw Kate a puzzled glance. "Welcome to the sewage," she then explained and smiled at me. "C'mon. The fuse box is directly below mum's office, that is at the other end of the hall." I sighed and followed her.

After a while Kate stopped in her steps and squinted her eyes. "Turn off the torch light for a moment, alright?," she asked. Sceptical, I looked at her. "What for?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't try anything."

I hesitated, then I turned off the torch. I expected utter darkness, but there was a slight glow in some distance …

"You're seeing that as well?," Kate assured. I quietly affirmed. It seemed blasphemous to desecrate the silence of the streaming water by talking loudly. "Interesting," she then noted. "One of those freaks made it down here again …"

Puzzled, I looked at her, turning the torch back on. "Who?"

"Whatever. Let's find that fuse."

I gave in to her judgement and followed her. Slowly I could make out the glow even in the torch's light, though it remained slight and seemed to gutter like a candle's flame. It wasn't perfectly in front of us, but slightly to the left.

After a while the opposite wall appeared from the darkness, on it a white steel box, about the size of a pompously large dresser. The fuse box, apparently, for Kate got out another key and unlocked it. "There's no light in the main building," she explained, "So we're looking for the central fuse. Give me a hand."

There were several hundred fuses, about half of them marked by tiny labels someone had scribbled rooms on campus on, so it took us a while to find the sole blown fuse. Kate pressed the switch, got it out and put it in again. Nothing happened.

"You turned on the lights when we got in, right?"

I confirmed. Kate gave a light curse and randomly pressed a few other switches. Nothing happened.

"Well, so it is a power outage. Probably a slight earthquake or something that damaged the cables …" She rolled her eyes and looked at me. "Well, whatever. Let's get back to the Council …"

The torch flickered and died down. "… room," Kate ended her sentence in now-complete dark.

An uneasy pause as I frantically tried to turn the torch back on. "Lemme guess," she drily stated. "The battery's dead."

Quietly, I confirmed. "I suppose …"

She sighed. "We obviously can't go back without light," she noted and passed me. "You still see the light over there? Don't fall into the water."

Slowly I followed her, feeling my way. We went perhaps twenty metres; the light constantly increasing. A candle, apparently; it seemed to sit on a platform – no, I then corrected myself, swim on a calm liquid surface.

When we had come close enough, the candle's weak shine revealed a perfectly circular polished granite wall of perhaps half a metre in width and height. Diameter … some five metres, I figured. The ring was filled with a liquid like a fountain, but it was no water: the stark stench of liquid iso-propane was in the air, overwhelming even the malodour of the sewage water.

Carefully I got the candle from out the fuel – it was small, round and light red. Someone had scratched in three signs: an L, a cross or plus and another L. Perhaps some couple had found its way down here and eternalised their initials on the candle.

Which, however, didn't yet explain the very existence of the strange basin.

"That one's new … let me see," Kate asked, reaching for the candle. Slightly too late I tried to hand it to her, our hands bumped against each other and –

The candle fell into the liquid. For a moment the swoosh of the water seemed to be silenced, seemed the hall to be devoid of any sound.

Then we involuntarily jumped back as a heat wave swept towards us and the silence was broken by the roar of fire.

I helped Kate up; she mumbled an excuse. "It's alright … at least we've got light now," I drily responded. Then I looked up and froze.

The blazing flames lighted a light sandstone statue in their midst, completely surrounded by a ring of fire – I squinted my eyes.

It was a bird, the eagle-like wings spread wide, head held high; lean and elegant, almost fragile, it arose from the flames. A phoenix.

I blinked, looked at Kate. "That … is absurd," I then said, flabbergasted. Kate blankly stared back. "I mean … we're below a _school_. In the _sewers_. Who would build something like … _here_?!"

Suddenly, she had to laugh. "Alex …," she began, as if speaking to a child. "This is_ Ashford Academy_. Absurdities are our speciality." Then she got serious again. "Who built this … place, I do not know. It just happened to be here when they rebuilt this part of the sewers in 2019, and it would have been too expensive to remove it. But … we've got our suspicions. Look, there."

She pointed to a spot on the edge of the fire basin. I stepped closer. A shadow in the brightly lit sandstone … an engraving I hadn't noticed before. An R … a hand's width farther an E.

Slowly I walked around the monument, counter-clockwise, and with every letter I deciphered my eyes widened.

_R … E … Q … U … I … E … M … Æ … T … E … R … N … A … M … D … O … N … A … E … I … S … D … O … M … I … N … E … E … T … L … U … X … P … E … R … P … E … T … U … A … L … U … C … E … A … T … E … I … S …_

_Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. _Grant them eternal rest, Lord, and may everlasting light shine them. The beginning of the Mass for the Deceased from Catholic liturgy and – the motto of the Order of the Requiem …

Only now I noticed what Kate had meant – a strange symbol between the S of _eis _and the R of _Requiem_. I stepped closer, now I recognised it: not a line within a circle, as I had thought before, but an L surrounded by a laurel wreath and imperially crowned … the monogram of Emperor Lelouch.

It suddenly became very cold. There it was again – that omnipresent Order that made ever conspiracy theory blush. That Order whose teachings had crushed my world view and left nothing but emptiness.

That Order which had murdered Henry.

A temple of the Demon. Why here? Why here; just below a _school_?

I forced myself to stay calm. I closed my eyes. Who could it have been? Which knights of the Order did I even know? Well, naturally it had been neither Lord Jeremiah nor Lady Sayoko – none of them seemed to have any connection to this place. And yet they seemed to be the only members of the Order who were … fanatic enough to do such a thing. Perhaps the only ones who truly understood what the Requiem meant.

But who else could have done it? I knew of but one knight of the Order who had lived in Japan at the time of this construction – Lady Kallen Kozuki, mother of Shirley and Naoto. She had been at Ashford herself, as I had heard, which explained the choice of location …

And yet it offered a new question. I had met Lady Kallen but once, years before being initiated to the Order, but she had not seemed to be a person who would build a temple for a dead Emperor – too serious; too rational. Two traits I was slowly losing, apparently.

"Strange, isn't it?," Kate noted and moved to my side. "We never found out who built this. When my great-grandfather rebuilt Ashford after the war, he tried to remove everything that could've reminded people of the Demon. It was as if there had never been a student called _Lelouch Lamperouge_."

I startled as I heard my alleged surname. "What …," I whispered, puzzled. "Lelouch … was at Ashford …?"

Kate nodded.

I gulped. Well, that explained the existence of that altar … but even this offered up new questions. Why had Her Majesty sent me here? She must have lived here with the Demon, but whence came then those good memories … even _if _Lelouch's short and bloody reign had been nothing but a show, he couldn't have been a pleasant contemporary. My personal theory, not supported by any studies or research – Lelouch had been mad, driven there by his hunger for revenge and the disastrous mirror my mother had given him by her mere existence as a superior being. The Requiem – the idealistic plan of a madman, obviously.

"Of course he was at Ashford. Your mother's not the only sovereign we've got. Didn't she ever tell you?"

Slowly, I shook my head. No, she hadn't. Last time we spoke to each other had been Christmas, and before that not at all for almost a year.

We'd never had much to say to each other.

That is, no – there had always been a lot to say. But it's far from knowing that to actually _saying _something. One we had barely ever taken – wherefore my own mother, by all reverence, was as strange to me as to any subject.

Kate sighed. "Okay," she then said and sat on the cold concrete. "Be seated."

Quietly I complied and sat on the ground, legs crossed.

"Okay," she repeated. "Okay okay okay. How much _do _you know?"

"Only what you told me," I admitted. Suddenly I was glad for the darkness – it hid my blush.

"Okay then. Story time," Kate calmly announced. "Once upon a time there were a little prince and a little princess who lived happily with their mother, Empress Consort Marianne, and their many half-siblings in a villa in Pendragon. The little prince was a serious, very intelligent boy, and there was but one thing he preferred to reading or playing chess: seeing his little sister smile, and so he would do anything to make her. Their mother however was the Emperor's favourite, even though only a minor consort, and spent more time with him than all his other wives together. But the court hated Marianne. The other consorts were jealous, the courtiers afraid and all of them loathed her because of her common birth: she had been Knight of One before her elevation to Imperial Consort, famous and infamous for her successes in the First Pacific War and during the conquest of New Zealand for the Realm. Nobility by sword, not by blood. Well … one day someone apparently decided he couldn't stomach Marianne and her sway over the Emperor any longer. She was found murdered, and her daughter crippled."

Kate paused, shifted. "I'm sorry," she then dryly joked. "I'm not much of a storyteller."

I quietly nodded. Nothing new so far, but it was strangely moving to hear it _here._ Hear it at all, that aspect of "family history" I only knew from books. Just how many children have to learn about their mother from her biography?

Pause. Kate sighed. "Well, I think you'll already know all of that. It's common knowledge, after all. … you know what happened? Lelouch renounced his claim to the throne and was banished to Japan as a hostage. Nevertheless the Kururugi government decided to support the Europeans and the Chinese in their economic sanctions against Britannia … war broke out on the 10th of August 2010 and Lelouch and Nunnally disappeared from the screen for seven years, when the first clues of their whereabouts appeared."

Again I nodded. "And they'd been hiding in Ashford all the while, under their mother's maiden name?"

"Indeed. Marianne Lamperouge had originally been employed as a test pilot for the _Ganymede _by the Ashford Foundation and for the rest of her life remained a protégé of my great-grandfather, Reuben Arthur Ashford, the 15th Duke. Mum said it had been a symbiotic relationship – he introduced her at Court and established the contact to then-Prince Charles, she on the other hand was his test pilot and would later secure some big army contracts for the Foundation. Still they apparently were like father and daughter, and when Marianne's children one day re-emerged from the ruins of Tokyo to seek refuge at Ashford Academy, he saw it as his duty to protect Marianne's heirs. Lelouch and Nunnally Lamperouge were born."

She smiled. "My mother knew them rather well. When she and Lelouch were 15, they forced the former Student Council to step down and took the office of president for herself, instating Lelouch as her vice president and filling the rest of the Council with her friends. She doesn't speak of him a lot … obviously. I suppose the seed of his madness was obvious already back then … Still, I'm rather certain mum and the Demon had more than just friendship – or that she wished to have more, at least."

I flushed red – that meant that my uncle and … er, whatever. What an ingenious actor Lelouch must have been! From that legendary Second General Assembly of the SC-UNIFON over Milly Ashford to his own sister, all of them he had deceived. He had deceived the world.

He still did, didn't he?

No one he had not ridiculed, he was not mocking even from his wet grave on the ground of the Pacific Ocean. The flames of the monument seemed to have died down. The phoenix glimmered mysteriously.

"Thank you," I soundlessly whispered. "Thank you for telling me that …"

Kate gave a slight laugh. "You're lacking self-confidence, Alex," she claimed. "May I remind you you'll be Emperor over us all one day?"

I moaned. "Oh, for the love of … please don't. I'm thinking about it far too often already."

She shook her head. "Don't force me to get out the old thing with the couch and the armchair," she warned. "Psychoanalysis never was my thing. You know what I mean. You need to stop feeling sorry for everything … what's it? Do you lack recognition? I can help you with that. Alex, you're a marvellous person. You are smart, sensible, polite, reliable, unobtrusive, kind …"

Starkly blushing, I interrupted her. "Oh, please …," I murmured. "Stop that … that's nonsense and you know that."

Indeed it was. And yet I couldn't hold her naïveté against her – she didn't know what I had done and what I had been responsible for. She didn't know about Henry, and neither did she realise the war was being led in _my _name as well, about an inheritance no one, least of all me, deserved.

Kate rolled her eyes and moved over to me, sitting beside me. I averted my gaze. "That," she calmly stated, "I do not want to hear again."

"Then I will remain silent."

Again she sighed, leaning back, staring into nothingness. "Just how can I convince you of the contrary?," she wondered. "What to do to show you the mirror without distortion?"

Silently I observed her. Suddenly there was a smile on her lips. "Ah," she made. "I've wanted to do that for quite some time."

Slowly she leaned in, gently put her hand on my cheek and turned my face towards her. Curiously I stared at her.

Then suddenly her lips were on mine. Soft. Warm. Sweet.

I didn't know what to do.

In our society there's a strange taboo on ending something merely because it is unpleasant – life, love, a conversation, you name it – etiquette demands one begins in ignorance and persists in the knowledge.

I thought I could return the kiss without being rude.

I returned the kiss.

Something buzzed and the hall was filled with the cold, bright light of several neon lamps.

The light had destroyed something: Slowly we parted. Kate … blushed? For a moment we stared into each other's eyes, like deer in the headlights, then we looked away.

"I … I'm sorry," Kate whispered. "I shouldn't have …"s

"It's alright," I replied, just as silent over the sewage's swoosh. "Let's go back up again."

* * *

><p>When we silently re-entered the Council room, my gaze met Jeanne's. A knowing, smug smile decorated her lips.<p>

Her right index finger was absent-mindedly drawing letters on the table.

_R … E … Q … U … I … E … M …_


	21. 20th Chapter: Colours

Note: _papa_ is pronounced in the French way, with the stress on the second syllable. Same for _mama_.

As you might have noticed, I have revised minor points of coherency, spelling, grammar in style in chapters 0 to 8, work ongoing. I have also added chapter titles.

This chapter is somewhat important. Don't miss the plot development. Actually, it should include a table of the Greek alphabet, but this site wouldn't allow it. **Also,** **the fiction rating will be changed to M**. Enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Twentieth Chapter – Colours<strong>

* * *

><p>Jeanne Ptolemy couldn't exactly say she'd had a bad childhood.<p>

* * *

><p>First, only colours.<p>

Her earliest memory was – white.

Pure white light hurting her little eyes. Infinite, cold light, a smooth white surface. She didn't know back then what it meant – but instinctively she felt that white was dangerous. It was beautiful. She wanted to go out there, lie in the white and become one with it. A world of white light she would softly drift off in.

She was afraid of the white.

Then – red.

Of course she knew one says babies are colour-blind. Still – and she is absolutely certain about that – she had seen red, deep red spots in the pure white. And then she realised she was safe, that even the infinite white wasn't invincible. Red was light, and she was afraid no longer.

Then – she saw black. The first distinct shapes appeared in the spotted red white, organic and intimidating.

But black wasn't white and it was obvious to her that black would defeat white as red once had. Black and red belonged together, even if she could only see red fighting white. For the first time she realised there was something other than colour in this world. She reached out her tiny baby's hand, yet couldn't grasp anything. The black remained untouchable far away.

And then an explosion. First beautiful dark violet, then gold and a bright green.

She never saw white the same way again.

A gaze out of the window at the snow, yet something was missing – white stayed boring without red. She wished to see more red.

* * *

><p>Violet, however, she saw more frequently from now on. She only had to close her eyes and it was there. Green she tended to forget, but at any time she could perfectly imagine a pair of dark violet irides, shining in the dark like those of a predatory cat hunting at night.<p>

Violet she never forgot.

As time passed, some other sensual experiences joined it – now she could even grasp things. A strain of hair first, then a long, warm finger, far bigger than her tiny digits. She tried to suck on it, but it was quickly drawn back.

Then, almost immediately, sounds. A deep, jumping, warm sound that spoke of joy and surprise – a laugh, a voice. Then a penetrating, vibrant sound, round and finished, then another one, and another one, a gentle melody caressing her ears. She could still imagine perfectly how the white fingers slid across the black and white keys like light spiders.

She kept hearing more and more. Slowly she could make out three main types of sounds. There firstly were those she had heard first – dark and warm, rough and angelic the first voice was ubiquitous. Then the piano next door – certainly the most melodic one, frightening in its perfection. And then there was another voice, lighter, cool and ever ironic.

She preferred the first type.

* * *

><p>Her first word had been "snow". An involuntary outcry of surprise when suddenly a cold white flake had landed in her hand. <em>La neige<em>.

Her second word then had been "_papa_" and this time she was convinced she had consciously chosen it. Only now that she could name it, she could understand the nature of the warm black shadow with the beautiful violet eyes from which red drops fell to the white snow like seeds.

Instinctively she knew that this act of naming was important; that the name she called the shadow would impact her relation to it. Soon she learned that violet and her favourite sounds belonged together, that she could hear the sounds if she spoke violet's name – _papa _– and that her second-dearest kind of sounds – the piano next door – wouldn't sound if she could see violet.

Soon she spoke her first sentence – but this time neither her memories nor her mother's sporadic, half-hearted attempts at keeping a baby diary helped. Probably the sentence had somehow been related to _papa_, with whose presence everything had been filled back then.

* * *

><p>In her third winter she learned that many letters were the same.<p>

_Papa _had drawn up a little table for her, deep blue on white paper. Not understanding she stared at the symbols.

_(Table of the Ancient Greek alphabet in caps and lowercase with transliteration)_

She blinked, looked up to Him. He sighed and she felt her cheeks flushing red. Patiently He explained that many letters were the same. Again she looked at the table.

Slowly from the dust emerged a phonetic system, completely different than the ones she knew from French and English. She learned to say oh when she saw an ω, she learned to say puh when she saw a π and by the end of the week she won herself a tight hug and a thousand enthused kisses when she read 'Ηρωων θεων ανδρων Heroooon theoon androon. Of heroes, of gods, of men.

From then on, there were more tender touches.

Whenever there was an opportunity, she would hurry to His side and pester Him until He spoiled her with gentle embraces and tender kisses on her brow and cheeks. Rarely she was content with the caressing of her mother as she slowly moved to the background, observing the spectacle with an amusedly raised brow.

At four she learned to say _nihon _when she saw 日本 on a page, and for that as well she received the caressing of a proud father.

* * *

><p>At six she one day stepped to her father's side, quietly observing Him. The black and white figures on the board before Him marched on unperturbed. She shifted her weight from her left to her right foot. She waited. Click, clack, click. She idly examined the folds of an angel's vestment on the Apocalyptic mural on the living room wall.<p>

Slowly He took a white figure from the board and placed it next to it. He leaned back in his armchair and folded His hands. Expectantly He looked at her.

She asked, shy and polite, and He explained. It seemed to her easy, even somewhat fun – not a matter of course. He handed her a book (Adolphe Gaspierre, _Introduction a la jeu d'échecs_) and sent her up to her room, promising to play her should she finish it.

She gulped at this rejection – the first. Then she quietly nodded, pressing the thin booklet tight to her chest, and stumbled back to her room.

She threw herself onto the bed. She had no time to cry. Covertly she wiped away some amassed tears with the duvet. Then she opened the book and began.

When she descended to the living room the next evening, He already sat by the chess board again. She waited until He was finished with His game against Himself, then she sat down opposite to him.

_Papa _won in ten-and-a-half moves and she burst out in tears.

Indifferently He sat on the other side of the table. She hid her face in her hands. Even back then it had been unthinkable to offer Him such a shameful sight.

She didn't quite know – her childish mind had had great hopes for this game. She had wanted to impress _papa_ – now she realised how foolish she had been.

She sobbed, then looked up. He was boredly examining His fingernails. Only when she had stopped crying and was silently staring at Him, He spoke. He began to list her mistakes and showed up more successful variants. Silently she listened.

He replaced the chessmen.

From then on, they played regularly.

* * *

><p>Somewhere along the way she began to take an interest in the world beyond the surrounding mountaintops. She'd had to be around eleven. It wasn't that she was missing anything – she was more than content to just live with <em>papa <em>and _mama_. It was only that she had never seen another person nor ever been outside range of sight of the house.

She began reading novels from her father's library and she liked what she saw. She told her mother about her curiosity and was barely surprised to find a television and a laptop with internet access in her room for her birthday a few weeks later.

She broadly grinned, then kissed first _papa_, then _mama _on their cheeks, gushily thanking them.

Insofar her first contacts with people of the same age were virtual. She made some friends on discussion boards and chatrooms, but her special circumstances kept those bonds from going particularly deep.

She remained a stranger in the Internet. Instead, she was watching a lot of television – enthusiastically she sucked in everything from films to reality shows. Under the impression of some films she proclaimed to her father she wanted to join the Imperial and Republican Guard when she was big.

He had dryly laughed. Then He handed her a gun and went outside with her to teach her shooting in the snow.

She never asked why He deemed it necessary.

Two days after that _mama _threw her a sabre and without a warning attacked her. Thus began her fencing lessons, which took turn with shooting from then on. It was an unfair fight. She even carried away some scars.

She never asked why she deemed it necessary.

This drilling, the chess and television kept her busy for about a year.

* * *

><p>When she was about fourteen, it wasn't enough any more. She still loved her parents – but she didn't feel she could trust them with anything whatsoever any more. She was bored by their endless discussions on possible steps to influence this or that civil war or election, bored by the chess matches she kept losing and by the endless stream of incoming books; bored as well by the regular arms training. She still wanted to join the Guard but had realised it was impossible for her. His embraces and kisses didn't bore her, but they had almost ceased and become far more distant starting the day she had first found tampons in her bathroom. He didn't have many principles, but He kept to them.<p>

She knew her parents regularly walked down to the tiny town in the valley.

Well, that November weekend _papa _had for reasons not known to her gone to Paris. Thus on Saturday evening she put on the black dress He had brought her from Florence last month (the slim-fit women's pinstripe blazer fit surprisingly well with the black and grey frilly skirt attached to it) and cautiously sneaked down to the entrance hall –

Her mother had surprised her. An amused and distanced grin on her face she had without a comment handed her a 50 Euros note and had disappeared. She blinked, looked down at the banknote in her hand. It was the first time she had ever held money and she couldn't quite understand what the fuss was all about. On the reverse there was a portrayal of Napoleon I the Great; he looked statesman-like, serious and incredibly old.

She looked after _mama_. Then she smiled, pocketed the money and put on her coat.

It took her about an hour to reach the little town. Directly behind the bend she had never been allowed to cross began a broad dirt track. She saw a small white garage and a four by four's tracks in the snow. She'd still have to walk.

Slowly, lights emerged from the darkness and her heartbeat fastened.

* * *

><p>She had come down here with the resolution to try everything that wouldn't leave her dead or pregnant or both.<p>

After an hour, she was good in time.

Instinctively she had found the town centre – the High Street shops were closed, of course, the streets deserted. There was something ghastly about her wandering around in the street lights' bright, yellow-tinted light.

Then she had seen an open door. Bright, vellicating colourful lights. Muffled music from inside. The building's walls were plastered with posters, from the election ad of the _Parti traivailliste français / L'etandard sanglant_ to the announcement of some alcohol-laden party. Above the door stood the locality's name and the auspicious word "_discothèque_".

She gulped. Then a smile crept unto her lips. She hadn't had any real plans for tonight – what better place to gain an impression of her contemporaries' lives than this? She entered the discotheque.

Her pupils widened, her breath quickened as she was completely beat by the bright flashes of light and the ear-deafening noise upon entering. In the sporadic shine of stroboscope and colourful spotlights the dancers' movements were jerky and robotic, an inorganic mass near boiling point. The fast, dumb beat of the heavily rhythmic, primitive music numbed her spoiled ears. It was hot; there was an animalistic stench of sweat and alcohol in the air.

Insecurely she made her way across the dance floor, bumped into several times. She walked to the bar at the opposite end of the room, tightly gripping the fifty Euros note and demanded – something. Something came, she drank and almost spit it out again. The alcohol was burning in her throat like fire. Nothing had prepared her less for this than the obligatory glass of red wine at dinner. But then she felt strangely light, as if she was swimming; she felt as if she could do anything – she took another sip and this time it tasted rather well.

The ugly guy next to her laughed. She raised an eyebrow, stared at him and his gaze went up from her chest to her eyes. His laugh broke off.

The town was small, very small. Everybody knew everybody. Someone like her had to stand out. The guy asked for her name and she told him. He asked if she was from Paris, noting her on her perfect Standard French. Then he ordered her another drink. She drank without hesitation.

The guy didn't look too bad – at least three years older than her, athletic. She had no clue why, but she liked his cheekbones. She hadn't bothered remembering his name.

She claimed to be from the area. He didn't believe her and made some stupid joke. She laughed. He said something irrelevant. He began a medley on the damned hillbilliness of the place, his car and alcohol. He made her some irrelevant compliment and she blushed. He said something unspeakably dumb.

She didn't know what to say. _Papa _had taught her that it was considered rude to end something merely because it was unpleasant. She didn't know what to say. There were a lot of things she could say, but none that wasn't unforgivably rude. She drank another sip and he ordered more drinks for them.

Well, she thought, her mind strangely foggy, perhaps she could end the chat without being unforgivably rude and still get closer to that animal with the handsome cheekbones. She couldn't put her hand on his mouth because that'd be unforgivably rude, but if she just put her mouth on his mouth –

She kissed him. Finally there was silence.

* * *

><p>As soon as he pressed her against the wall of the ladies' bathroom with his kisses, shoved up her skirt and down her panties, she knew she had made a mistake.<p>

Her father was a beautiful man – the creature now moving between her legs was ugly and disgusting. He had hair in all the wrong places and dumb, dull eyes. Also, it _hurt_. Something about the white tiles and the cold white light of the ladies' had thrown her back to the world and cleaned her blood from alcohol.

There was some red as well here, but it was dirty and muddy on the white tiles. It had nothing to do whatsoever with His blood in the virgin snow.

She leaned against the wall and endured it.

He came and deflated inside her, then withdraw. She wanted to say something non-committal that would confuse him. He opened his mouth. There was a silenced gunshot and blood came out. Then he collapsed over her and she blinked in confusion.

She stood face to face with her father. His penetrating violet eyes were shining with fury, His slim-fit black suit was bloodied. He ordered her to get dressed. His cold snarl was as sobering as icy water. Silently she complied. She stepped to the washbasin and splashed some water in her face, looked at herself in the mirror.

She said she were sorry.

He switched to English, as always when enraged, and called her a "harlot".

She winced at this. Of course He was right, He was always right. She had betrayed Him. She had thrown herself at the first guy who had dirtily grinned at her. He had _expressively _forbidden her to go down to the valley and He had been _right_.

This her breach of His trust didn't deserve His mercy and she was prepared and willing to accept this insult and bear it as a badge of honour if that was His wish … still it hurt.

Silently she nodded.

The cheekbones guy was lying on the floor, blood-stained and a hole in the back of his head. His pants were still around his ankles.

She stepped to _papa_'s side. He didn't look at her. She begged for His forgiveness. She tried to take His hand. She kissed Him.

Silently and without offering resistance she let him lead her outside across the dance floor. His friends hadn't noticed the death of cheekbones, hadn't even heard the shot. The gendarmes slowly assembling by the discotheque's entrance offered polite nods to the sharp-dressed siblings leaving the locality both sober and early. Her father didn't twitch an eyebrow. No one had noticed the semi-automatic in His hand.

She never received His expressive forgiveness. Yet when He came to her room the same night and for the first time after a long period of abstinence she had the pleasure of His sweet and tender touches, when He forced her to twist below him in lust and pleasure, when He entered an unbreakable contract with her she knew He had forgiven her.

* * *

><p>His movements were – routinised and distanced. He was no lover, at best the operator of a machine. He knew exactly which buttons He had to press to make her moan, knew exactly how He could lead her to climax. He was playing her like an instrument He didn't particularly like. He demonstrated technical expertise and virtuosity without any passion. He was someone who played <em>Yesterday <em>on the piano with Brahmsian amplitude and lushness and so casually kicked aside the very thing which was the essence of the song.

He possessed her completely, like one might possess a tool or instrument. He never gave up control; every little movement, every word, every kiss, every touch was a factor in a cold calculation. She enjoyed to fully give herself to Him. She enjoyed being close to the violet.

One day she dared asking Him whether He felt anything for her. He had laughed and given her the myth of Narcissus to read. We love what we know, we love what we are, spoke He. He spoke: common cause, common cause, common cause of mouth, eye, ear, tongue, hand, nose, flesh, heart, and soul. Then He kissed her and told her not to question Him.

She had never found out what her mother thought of all that. For all she knew, she didn't care.

She gave up the wish to join the Imperial and Republican Guard. She went down to the town a few more times, but only ever at His side. In exchange He took her with him when He left for business once in a while. By His side she saw Paris, Bordeaux, Marseilles, Rome, Florence and all the other great cities of the French Empire, all in the moonshine. The days she spent alone in their hotel room.

She didn't question Him any more and made full use of His gift of Geass. In exchange He would frequently come to her. She made a habit out of being ready for Him always and everywhere.

Her mother merely laughed.

* * *

><p>She had always known her parents had killed more people than she would ever see. She had always known they didn't age and would never die. She had never cared.<p>

Still the cold steel on her shoulders and her head felt important-laden.

* * *

><p>On her fifteenth birthday she learned she would go to Japan.<p>

She cried and protested, she clung to Him and begged on her knees.

She didn't ask, why. He had always worked in mysterious ways.

Eventually she complied, as she had always done.

* * *

><p>The other students' chats had a light-heartedness to them which she didn't understand. She was disgusted by their irrelevant little problems. The smiles of the Student Council made her nervous, she didn't know what to do with it. Their topics meant nothing to her.<p>

She missed Him. It was strange to decide on herself what to spend her days with. She was afraid of that freedom.

Slowly, very slowly she began to understand the others like an ethologist might understand the behaviour of a group of gorillas. It was completely outlandish to her. None of her far too many languages was sufficient to express her confusion and her sheer panic. The Japanese and English she heard around her she didn't understand.

She caught herself placing the chessmen in the evening, moving a white pawn or knight and then patiently waiting for an hour or more for black to make her move. The day after she realised that she began frequenting a bar she had heard people played for money in. It was the first match she had ever won in her life. She was proud about it. She wanted to be how He wanted her.

It was hard to be without His orders.

She remained unconditionally faithful to him. Parts of the male student body seemed to suffer from her faithfulness, but she remembered the muddy red of the guy with the cheekbones.

She longed to hear His voice, but she didn't dare disturb Him with her call. From time to time He called her, due to the time lag usually around 3am, and nonetheless she always picked up on the second ring. Then He would give her orders, which of course she executed to the letter. Even thousands of kilometres from Him her very existence was directed towards Him. She had no reason to be afraid, she realised: for she would never be free, not for all her life.

Thank goodness.

* * *

><p>Then comes he – shy, polite, intelligent, discreet. He is everything <em>papa <em>is not and yet exactly like Him. She sees his lilac eyes, so different and yet so similar to his violet, smiles and at His next call reports. He doesn't sound surprised, but He never is. His command to guard the boy she takes as serious as any other word from His mouth.

She doesn't really care about him. He's there and he's important to _papa_. That is all that counts. She will guard. She will be able to forgive him – for he is unimportant. She doesn't envy him in his non-descript brilliance, for the young prince will – thank goodness! – never meet Him. It is her who rises and falls at His side. The love she feels for Him he will never be able to replace.

She can forgive him – even the game of chess she can forgive, for he is a less radiant copy of her father. She doesn't cry for the lost game, she doesn't cry for the money, she cries solely because she disappointed her teacher. She cries out of happiness because she may stand in His shadow.

She forgives him because he is not in the state of grace of knowledge.

That's why she hates him when in the lowermost drawer of his dresser she finds a sword. She turns and stands face to face with him. Hell's vengeance is burning in her heart, death and destruction blazing around her. She stares at him and tries to see what He had seen. She sees nothing. She hates him.

He says something. She tightly grips the sword's hilt. She wants to kill him, but He ordered her to guard him –

She will guard him.

She tries to see why he is better than her. She kisses him, vehement and with all the passion of her hatred for him and her love for _papa_ (never would she have dared to kiss _Him _like this). He retreats in surprise, she follows.

He doesn't seem to understand. Something inside her breaks loose. How do you get hatred into a kiss?

He reacts appropriately when she unbuttons his pants. It's different with him – it's her who has to take initiative. It's his first time. Differently than _papa_, he is tender and passionate at the same time. She doesn't understand.

She continues trying: attempts to find out what He finds remarkable about this princeling. Lying beside him she lulls herself to sleep with the thought that he as well is but a tool, made special only by his background, not his personal qualifications. She is afraid it could be different.

She tells Him nothing of it. He hasn't ordered her to sleep with him, but neither did He forbid it.

She hates the prince. Every kiss and every touch she grants him is filled with disbelief and envy. When she sleeps with him she tries to imagine it is He who is gently caressing her – the illusion is not particularly good, for he has the passion and love for her He lacks. It's still a sweet illusion.

She stares into his lilac eyes and every day discovers more things lilac and violet have in common. Every day she discovers more reasons why he is inferior.

She hates lilac, but perhaps she loves it a little as well.

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><p>Please review.<p> 


	22. 21st Chapter: Valkyrie

Wagner was born in 1814. The butterfly net around Britain falls in 1804. Him still being born is pure Rule of Cool.

Also, I've bought a DVD collection of the Copenhagen Ring in Hanoi for 15€ instead of the 75€ Amazon wanted. Fuck yeah. I've been listening to one complete Ring every day for a week now. _Might _show. Reviews are welcome.

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><p><strong>Twenty-first Chapter – Valkyrie<strong>

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><p><em>Tokyo, Republic of Japan, United Federation of Nations<em>

_29th of September 2034 a.t.b._

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><p>Bright light blinded me through closed eyelids and a hot shine warmed my brow. I blinked, sleepily turned around. Then I opened my eyes.<p>

Waking Jeanne lay next to me, steadfastly staring at the ceiling. Her hair surrounded her head like a dark halo; her usually lively gaze went into space, empty and absent-minded. She didn't make the slightest attempt of hiding her nude form.

I flushed red when at once the memories of last night returned. Had it been a dream? Probably not, for there she was … I thought I should have to say something, notice her that I could … see her. No word crossed my lips. I was too afraid – whatever it was that had happened yesterday, it was frightening, dangerous, mad and also rather embarrassing. I didn't know Jeanne well enough to predict her reaction, but I knew her well enough to know that she _would _react, somehow. Quietly I stared at her; greedily I used the opportunity to watch her without being repulsed by the insurmountable wall of her wary golden eyes.

Please, don't misunderstand me – it was no lewd ocular grope. Rather my gaze was that of a silent admirer, even now drawn in by Jeanne's hypnotic eyes. I stared at her like one might stare at a beautiful, in its perfection terrible work of art.

Her body, however, I had no need of seeing again. If I had wanted to, I could (… and can …) recall every single detail, but I didn't – for one, because it was unimaginable to me to disgrace her with the voyeur's thievish gaze; for another because it wouldn't be _her. _When I thought of Jeanne, I thought of a pair of deprecatory, yet all-pervading golden eyes and the deep reflections speaking from them.

Of course I'm not saying her body wasn't perfect … for that it was … nor, that I were above such lusts … for, as I had seen last night, I was completely subject to them.

Only now Jeanne noticed my stare and briefly looked at me. I held my breath. "Ah," she merely said, "… good morning."

First I blinked, then I smiled in relief. My worries had been unfounded – she didn't know what exactly had happened, either. "Good morning …," I quietly responded.

Still – it was obvious I would have to say _something_. Impossible to ignore the elephant in the room. Not as long as both of us were lying next to each other, naked.

But what? Should I apologise, and if yes, what for? Should I make an innuendo and hope she understood? … perhaps kiss her as I had done yesterday?

To my surprise it was Jeanne who took up the embarrassing topic. "Let's not talk of it again," she spoke, perfectly calm, stretched (I dared a long glance) and sat on the edge of the bed.

Confused I looked at her. Hadn't it been her who had yesterday attacked me when I had found her with my sword of the Order? I hesitated. Could it possibly … I gulped. If Jeanne had only approached me to distract from her discovery of the sword? Alarmed I sat up: the sword still lay on the floor, where she had dropped it.

"Why …?," I thus merely asked with a scorched throat.

Jeanne merely shrugged. "It's nothing," she quietly said, staring at the ground. "It's unimportant. A failed experiment, no more …"

"I don't think it failed …"

"You don't know the failure conditions. You don't know the hypothesis."

I hesitated. I didn't know what to say without sounding ridiculous. "So … you didn't enjoy it?," I asked, sounding ridiculous, and blushed.

Jeanne turned her gaze and for a moment steadfastly stared at me. Then a mocking smile slid onto her lips. "… I didn't say that." At once she seamlessly added: "I'll have a shower. It's Saturday, so it's your turn to make breakfast."

I blinked, surprised by the sudden change of topic. Then I silently nodded. Wearing her nudity like a ball gown, Jeanne left my room.

With a quiet sigh I fell back into the pillows and closed my eyes. It was incredibly frustrating – whenever I tried to find out a bit more about Jeanne, it ended with her twisting my words and turning them against me. I might have bested her in chess, but not on this battlefield.

And yet: just like I didn't know what Jeanne had meant by "experiment", I had no clue what exactly I had been trying to find out. As embarrassing as it was, it was obvious that last night had been wonderful and I wasn't averse to repeating it. But that wasn't it – wasn't all.

Jeanne's cold and distanced behaviour confused me almost as much as last night her aggression and closeness had confused me. I didn't know what I had done wrong.

Slowly I stood up, got dressed and went to the kitchen. Mechanically I prepared pancakes, scrambled egg and bacon – Jeanne's demand to take turns with cooking had forced me to learn to cook from some beginner's books.

I revisited my memories of last night (trying to ignore the inappropriate parts) in search of an explanation. I had returned from a game in a Shinjuku casino late in the evening with Kate and had without delay gone to my room – Jeanne had knelt before the wardrobe, shaking, sword in hands. Upon my entry she had turned in alarm and stared at me from wide eyes, had jumped up. I had wanted to say something, but hadn't managed to. With a dumb sound the sword had fallen to the ground.

Suddenly she had kissed me. Her kiss was completely different from Henry's: where his had been gentle and tender, hers was wild and forceful. Violently she pressed her lips on mine, her tongue entered my mouth like a drill, stormily her arm slung around my neck: and still I had been unable to do anything but completely submit to her leadership, shyly return the kiss. I noticed too late the tears on her cheek. I noticed too late what my hands were doing. Almost involuntarily I returned her kisses and gently caressed her body. I broke four eggs into a bowl and absent-mindedly stirred them.

After a while, Jeanne had calmed down. Gently she had led me and still clung to me as if she was drowning. I didn't understand, but I surrendered, unconditionally. The next morning, there was no trace of her tears.

When I poured the egg into a pan, Jeanne entered the kitchen in a white bathrobe and dripping hair, the paper and some letters in her hand, and sat at the table, turning her back towards me. Bored she threw a look at the front page ("Home Secretary Tsuchiya has resigned, well, high time …") and went through the letters ("Ad … ad … they'll have a power cut-off next week again, one could believe we were in India … oh."). The she wordlessly ripped open one of the letters and read the few words again and again.

Silently I put pancakes, egg and bacon on two plates and placed them on the table. For that, I had to pass behind her, so that I could read the letter – involuntarily I did, though it obviously wasn't for me. It was but a single line, written by hand with a fountain pen in elegant, narrow cursive penmanship. I could clearly read it – it was in French. _Tu sais ce qui se passe avec une valkyrie qui trahit son maître? Amène ton ami__._ That was it. No signature, no address. Jeanne read the single line over and over again. I sat opposite to her and looked at the envelope on the table – plain white. No address, no stamp – only a broken red wax seal, apparently without a shield or lettering. A coloured piece of paper stuck out of the envelope.

I poured both of us some orange juice, thinking about the mysterious letter that was a much welcome distraction. _Do you know what happens to a Valkyrie that betrays her master? Bring your friend_, I silently translated. I still didn't understand. I knew that Valkyries were creatures from Norse mythology, but little more.

Out of a sudden, Jeanne slammed the letter on the table and hastily took the envelope, violently shaking out two small, colourful pieces of paper.

Surprised I looked up, then frowned, worried. Her already pale face was cadaverous as she reached for one of the slips. They were printed in Japanese so that I couldn't read them from across the table.

My patience was rewarded. A moment later Jeanne put away the slip. Her breathing was shallow and fast, her pupils were widened. "Want to go to the opera tonight?," she soundlessly asked.

I blinked, taken aback. I hadn't even known there was an opera in Tokyo. Silently Jeanne handed me the other slip – it was a ticket, as I now realised, of the National Theatre of Tokyo: _The Valkyrie_, opera in three acts by Richard Wainwright. Sung in English with Japanese surtitles. The date given was today's.

I looked up at Jeanne. "Who sent the letter?," I inquired.

"No one," she bleakly replied. Then she threw me a challenging look. "Well?"

Quietly I lowered my gaze, reread the ticket. "Well, er … actually, I'm not really into opera …"

"Come," she insisted. Her voice had suddenly frozen over. "Come and I won't tell anyone who you are."

I startled. "What …," I whispered and blanched. How was that possible? What had given it away? As far as I knew, the Ministry of Information had removed all photos of me from the Web before I had left – which had been Henry's trick – which left only Jeanne seeing me in person. But I had never been exposed to the public and Jeanne had certainly not been present at the dozen or so social events I had participated in. So it had to be the sword … but even my sword of the Order would have been completely unintelligible to an outsider. My eyes, perhaps? But even if violet eyes were rare outside the Imperial Family, they occurred, especially in the peerage. "What … what gave me away?," I finally asked. My voice was barely more than a hint. "No one knows I'm Faramond …"

Curiously, I wasn't afraid or even worried. With a few simple words to the rest of the Student Council, Jeanne could completely destroy my blissful life in anonymity here at Ashford. Still I had no fear … I was confounded, and yet I felt completely safe. Till today I don't understand, why. Perhaps I can best phrase it this way. I … trusted Jeanne.

Jeanne dryly smiled. Too late I noticed I had just confirmed any suspicions she might have had and blushed. She shrugged and with a gracious, fluid movement leaned in to take her cutlery. "I just know it … Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. Just come with me."

Silently, I nodded. Well, an evening at the opera wouldn't kill me (even if it was Wainwright). Probably I owed that to Jeanne – probably I would never be able to fully pay for that strange night, but that shouldn't keep me from trying. Perhaps it wouldn't be that bad.

What did I know.

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><p>At 20.35 sharp we sat on our seats in the stalls of the greater auditorium of the National Theatre: 10-K and 10-L. I wore my school uniform, Jeanne a black dress best described as a slim-fit, waisted pinstripe blazer with a frilly skirt and knee-high leather boots. A difference as day and night.<p>

Silently we sat next to each other as the audience took their seats. I skimmed through the programme.

Richard Wainwright had been born under the name of Wagner in 1869 a.t.b. in Leipzig, Confederation of the Rhine, and had relatively late started composing. He hadn't been a child prodigy, but quickly successful in Dresden. In the revolutionary years of 1903/1904, however, he had participated in a socialist rebellion against the liberal regime of King Frederick Augustus II of Saxony: the support from France the revolutionaries had hoped for didn't come as Napoleon II was eager to keep the Confederation of the Rhine as a close ally. The rebellion was crushed and Wagner fled for Britannia, where he had some friends willing to shelter him. He learned English and anglicised his name as Wainwright. Under the unlikely patronage of Emperor Arthur he composed several operas premièred in New Haven, then with imperial support in 1927 erected his own opera house on the shore of Lake Erie, near Cleveland, to stage his magnum opus, the cycle _The Lord of the Ring_. After the third performance of _Twilight of the Gods_, he had the wooden building burnt, together with all props, stage art and copies of the sheet music. However Emperor Arthur's great-grandson, Richard IV, had in apprehension had the music secretly copied, thus saving the great work. Several years afterwards Wainwright committed suicide after having powerlessly seen his work reinterpreted and exploited by the imperial propaganda.

At first heavily influenced by his contemporary Weber and Beethoven, he had eventually developed his unique style, characterised by bombastic orchestration, rich harmonies and the Leitmotif technique. The conductor entered the pit, I put aside the programme and clapped.

Several minutes later it was clear to me: not only that characterised his music, but also its … _epic _… scale. I quickly estimated the length of a scene and extrapolated this to three acts and two half-hour breaks. Then I prepared myself for five long hours of boredom.

The audience around me devoutly listened to the love duet on stage. Bored I looked at Jeanne. Grimly she stared at the stage, simultaneously following the surtitles. Her fingers clenched the edge of her seat so tightly her knuckles were pure white. Something about that sight hurt me – I wanted to take her hand, assure her that everything was alright. Of course I didn't.

I startled when the music suddenly rose. The screeching soprano now held the sword she had drawn from the ash tree, the tenor tightly embraced her. "_Bride and sister you are to your brother:,_" he sang very loudly and still was drowned out by the orchestra, then he thundered into profound silence: "_So let the blood of the Wälsungs flourish!_" To incredibly bombastic music the two singers drew each other down to the forest ground and curtain fell. Mechanically I applauded. I hadn't even noticed the characters were siblings.

The singers stepped out in front of the curtain, bowed under further applause. Finally I rose. Wordlessly Jeanne and I walked out to the foyer. In the chandeliers' light her face was sallow and her eyes dull. I hesitated, then I awkwardly put my hand on her shoulder. "Is … are you alright?," I quietly asked. She brushed aside my hand, but I noticed she was trembling.

"It's just …," I tried to apologise, blushing, "You're … so pale."

Jeanne didn't reply. We stepped out of the theatre's foyer into the night. The air was cool and wet. In the bright shine falling outside through the foyer's glass front stood some patrons smoking. We brought some distance between them and us. Closely side-by-side we wandered around under the cherry trees.

"I … I'm afraid," she finally admitted. Confused I looked at her. Jeanne and fear – that I didn't understand. Even when she had burst out in tears after the lost game of chess, she had still seemed to me like a radiant triumphatrix.

I asked who the letter had been from and what it meant. No reply. I asked if I could do anything for her. She asked for a glass of water.

I left her alone for a short moment to buy her a drink, then returned. Jeanne now sat on a bench, curled up hugging her knees and trembling stared into space. I gulped –

It hurt. To see her like this, so weak and helpless, was absolutely devastating – her, who had always seemed so strong and confident, to whom I had looked up, should be as weak as I was? Just what hopes could there be, then … But yet another thing hurt, a sharp tearing in my chest. I wanted nothing more than draw her in my embrace and hold tightly, never let go, until she had calmed down. Quietly I sat next to her and handed her the glass of water.

She drank, then soundlessly said: "According to the programme, it's usually Siegmund who draws the sword from the trunk. They changed that in this production."

Irritated, I frowned. "I wonder why," I noted in an attempt to feign the slightest interest in the opera. It didn't really work.

Jeanne shrugged. Still she was hugging her knees, but at least she wasn't shaking any more. "I don't know," she admitted. "It seems like Siegmund's empowerment is to Sieglinde like a key that somehow frees something inside of her … I don't understand such things. Never did."

Slowly, I nodded. It was weird – suddenly, the characters seemed strangely likeable to me, in spite of the horrible screeching and the disgusting incest they committed. I understood as if it had been clear all along that Jeanne held the hoard, but not the key, and that myself I held the key, but not the hoard. I smiled. In the foyer a brass octet played a fanfare.

"I've read in the programme," Jeanne added after a while, "that the director in his production wanted to reinterpret the _Lord of the Ring _from a feminine point of view. That considered, it makes sense, of course … I still don't understand. Don't understand how she manages to use that … that power if it hadn't been manifest all the time …"

I hesitated. Yes, indeed – I understood both of them, Sieglinde and Jeanne. Now I might have held the key and not the hoard, but once it had been the other way around – as a child I had been, as I have been told, high-spirited and full of joie de vivre. But then my mother had handed me to the Prime Minister to oversee my upbringing … I knew, I mustn't hate Schneizel (who still was my uncle, after all). It was one of many flaws I had that I still did and had to. I hated, or rather, feared him for locking that joie de vivre away and throwing away the key.

The switch had occurred only last year – out of a sudden Henry entered my life, the radiant hero, and immediately seized it. Willingly I had given it to him, and somehow it happened – in Henry's presence I had felt free and strong like never before. He – his empowerment, so to speak – his love had been what had freed that vitality and zest from their dragon-guarded cave and brought them to the surface again.

But then he had died and my light had died with him. I now held the key – having been loved, having loved – but the power … had disappeared together with Henry. The person that had awoken on Christmas Day in the palace had had nothing in common with the one that had previously fallen unconscious in New York and superficially identical to the one Schneizel had created.

I looked at Jeanne. Took a deep breath. Haltingly I asked: "Have you … I mean, I don't want to intrude … have you ever … well … loved someone? And did that Someone … love you back?"

Slowly, her face went to pieces. Her eyes widened, the faint smile on her lips disappeared.

For a long moment it was completely silent. Even the wind in the treetops seemed to hold its breath. Even Tokyo suddenly fell silent. The octet twice repeating its fanfare was a part of the silence.

Then, Jeanne nodded. The corners of her mouth went up, but her eyes stayed empty. "Of course," she replied, her quiet voice a little higher than usual, "of course …"

I didn't object. Four minutes later the fanfare was repeated thrice and we returned to our seats in the stalls.

The conductor entered the pit, again we applauded. Suddenly, Jeanne took my hand, firm and warm – I startled and involuntarily drew it back. She leaned in and over the first notes of the overture whispered to me: "Please pay attention this time … I … I fear I'm going mad …"

Silently I nodded and turned to look at the stage. I still didn't like the music, but at least I began to understand the plot. The overly long speech of god Wotan about the previous events had some good – after twenty minutes I was as much up to date as if I had eagerly listened to the tetralogy's first part the night before. Basically, it seemed to be like this: in a cave in a forest a dragon (who for some reason had once been a giant) guarded a hoard to which belonged a powerful ring. Wotan, the king of gods in Germanic mythology, wanted the Ring, yet for some reason couldn't get it himself. So he tried to manipulate his mortal son Siegmund into slaying the dragon and getting him the Ring. Well, tough luck: Siegmund had an affair with his twin sister and Wotan's wife, goddess of marriage, insisted on his death. Wherefore Wotan ordered his _other _daughter, the Valkyrie Brünnhilde, to ensure that Siegmund would die in his next battle.

The scene changed and the abnormal romance between the siblings (who still became more and more likeable to me) continued. Brünnhilde appeared, prophesied death, but then, touched by the siblings' love for each other, promised to defy the god's orders and fight for Siegmund.

Once in a while I looked at Jeanne. She looked better than before and less pale. Nervously she was shifting around in her seat. Solemnly she stared at the stage, apparently waiting for something.

And then came the act's finale. Mildly interested I watched Brünnhilde preparing to guard Siegmund in his duel with his sister's husband, when suddenly Wotan appeared and killed Siegmund with his spear. The Valkyrie fled with the sister while Wotan for a moment was distracted by the overwhelming grieving for his son.

But then – from the silence erupted out of a sudden furious and wild the voice of Wotan. "_But Brünnhilde! Woe betide the betrayer! The shameless child shall be fearfully punished once my horse overtakes her in flight!_" Amongst thunder and lightning, curtain quickly fell; I raised my hands to applaud.

After a few minutes of curtain calls, I looked for Jeanne. She wasn't applauding, but was like paralysed. Worried I lowered my hands. Her lips were soundlessly moving, her eyes wide open. I leaned over to her; "Is … is something wrong?," I quietly asked.

Jeanne didn't reply, stood up and thrust her way out to the aisle. I followed her. It seemed as if that which she had feared had happened – I stepped out to the aisle. Jeanne was already hurrying towards the exit.

And suddenly everything was clear. The strange letter – _Do you know what happens to a Valkyrie that betrays her master?_ –, the tickets for the opera, Jeanne's panic attack, Brünnhild's punishment.

We stepped out to the foyer. Jeanne was shaking. "It's a warning …," she quietly explained, "a warning … He knows it already …"

This time without hesitation I put my hands on her shoulders and gently made her look at me. "Calm down," I asked her. "It's alright. Nothing has happened yet."

Jeanne set out to reply, then broke off. I waited for a moment, but she remained silent. "First of all … who's _He_?," I inquired, trying to imitate her awed tone.

She averted her gaze, brushed off my hands and took a few steps towards the exit. The first opera-goers joined us in the foyer, thankfully ignored us, though. "He …," she repeated. Silence.

"He is Wotan," she then ground out and convulsed with apparent pain. "Battle-father. Victory-father …"

Worried I put a supporting arm around her waist and led her outside to a bench. In the fresh, clear air of the night she deeply breathed in and out. "I understand," I quietly said, kneeling before her. It was obviously pointless to try and find out more. "And … you think you betrayed Him?" No reply. I interpreted her silence as a yes. "How?," I continued. Then I realised it. The letter had come this morning, without stamp or address and therefore delivered in person. "Perhaps … because of last night …?"

Silently she nodded.

The fanfare resounded the first time.

I didn't understand. Who could that be – the analogy and thus the warning, of course, was clear: Jeanne was Brünnhilde, the mysterious letter-writer Wotan. Wotan thought she had betrayed him and thus showed her her punishment. But who could consider last night a betrayal? I couldn't really imagine Jeanne having a boyfriend. Not to speak of a boyfriend who sends threatening letters sealed with red wax.

Still – and that thought sent a cold shiver down my spine – I couldn't think of any other possibility. I sighed. "May … may I give you an advice?," I quietly asked her. "As a friend?"

She didn't respond. I took a deep breath. "You … should leave Him. I might not know Him … but He sounds dangerous …"

Suddenly, an amused spark lit up in Jeanne's eyes. "You're jumping to conclusions … You don't have all necessary information. It's impossible."

I didn't know what to say. "I should leave Him?," she simply repeated. "That would be leaving life, for He to me is life itself."

"And yet you fear Him."

"The only thing I fear is that He could remove His grace from me."

I rose to my feet, gulped. "Jeanne …," I implored her, "That's not healthy …"

She blinked, then smiled. "What's that supposed to be, a healthy relationship?"

I wanted to say something, anything, but then closed my mouth again. Of course, as if there were an answer to that … Jeanne was right. "And … you love Him?," I finally asked. I could barely bring the words to cross my lips.

For a long time we remained silent. The fanfare was repeated twice. Then the imitation of a smile crept on Jeanne's lips. "… of course."

"And He loves you?"

Again Jeanne trembled and crossed her arms. She lowered her gaze. Impossible to lie. "He doesn't hate me," she then admitted, whispering. "I don't ask for more."

Beat I sat down next to her and as a matter of course she huddled against me. Even _that _hurt.

A faint light appeared in my chest, flickering and defenceless. But nourished by cool air and fervent zeal, it quickly grew, soon became a blazing flame … warm and gentle was its light, yet edacious and still growing quickly.

For some reason I had to smile. Was there a moment more inappropriate? "Then He doesn't deserve you," I firmly said.

Jeanne didn't reply, but she sat up straight again and distanced herself a little. Silently we stared at the ground.

Thrice the fanfare was repeated.

I stood up. "Shall we go back inside?," I worriedly asked. Jeanne nodded and rose as well. "Are … are you sure? You know, Brünnhilde will probably be punished in this act … are you really fine with seeing that?"

Again she nodded. The gaze from her golden eyes was firm and determined. "That is my duty."

I submitted to her decision and let her lead me back to our seats. Again the conductor, again applause. This time I kept an eye on Jeanne.

The overture to the third act contained the motif from the brass octet's fanfare. Loud. Six minutes long. I remembered where I knew the motif from; some old propaganda film about the War of the Five Emperors. Curtain rose. The eight sisters of the choir of Valkyries convened for a kind of boozy party with horribly mutilated corpses of heroes in the background.

Brünnhilde arrived with Sieglinde and begged her sisters to help her. The Valkyries, however, feared Wotan's fury too much and Sieglinde only desired to follow her brother into death – only, when Brünnhilde prophesied her her pregnancy by her brother, Sieglinde's spirits revived and fled.

And then appeared Wotan. Furiously, firmly holding the spear Gungnir in his hand, he stormed right in the Valkyries' midst, who retreated in fear. "_Where is Brünnhild'!_," he thundered, "_where the delinquent? How dare you hide the traitress from me?_"

Desperately the sisters begged for his mercy, but successless. "_Know then, whimperers, what she did wrong, for whom you fainthearts shed a hot tear: no one, like she did, knew my innermost thinking; no one, like she did, watched at my will's sacred spring! She herself was my wish's life-giving womb: and now she has broken the holy bond by faithlessly flouting my will, and, openly spurning my sovereign command, turning against me the very weapon my will alone had created for her! – Do you hear me, Brünnhilde? You, on whom byrnie, helmet and weapon, bliss and favour, name and live I bestowed? Do you hear me make complaint and hide in fear from the plaintiff in the faint-hearted hope of avoiding chastisement?_"

I startled when suddenly I felt a hand around mine and looked at Jeanne. Her face was deathly pale. Drops of sweat stood on her brow and her breast raised and lowered rapidly. Her hand was icy cold, firmly I held on to it.

Brünnhilde stepped forward from amidst the Valkyries, facing her father humbly, yet determined. "_Here I am, father … say what's my sentence!_"

With a forceful drumbeat, the music erupted. "_It's not for me to sentence you – your sentence you yourself ordained …_," Wotan grimly sang before his voice soared up to new heights, almost cracking in fury.

"_Through my will alone you existed: but against me you have willed! My orders alone you carried out: but against me you've ordered! Wish-maid you were to me: but against me you have wished! Shield-maid you were to me: but against me you raised your shield! Chooser of lots you were to me: but against me you've chosen lots! Inciter of heroes you were to me: but against me you incited heroes!_"

Again I looked at Jeanne. The grip around my hand had tightened. Her beautiful face was distorted to a grimace of sheer panic and horror as she drew in accusation after accusation.

"_What once you was, Wotan has told you. What you are now you can say to yourself! Wish-maid you are no more; Valkyrie you have been: now henceforth be what remains!_"

"_You're casting_ …" I didn't hear how it continued. Frantically Jeanne drew on my hand; she had jumped up and now forced her way out to the aisle, drawing me with her with the vast strength of her panic. Instinctively I mumbled excuses to the angered patrons, then we ran out to the foyer.

Stopping, Jeanne took a deep breath and let go of my hand. A waiter threw us a surprised look, I returned a perturbed smile and closed the door to the hall. Then I turned to face Jeanne.

Her eyes were closed and her breath heavy. I asked if she was alright and immediately corrected myself. If there was anything I could do for her.

Out of a sudden Jeanne collapsed and three or four times threw up on the polished parquet floor.

Silently I held her hair out of the way while she emptied her stomach. The waiter brought a glass of water, a bucket and a mop and helped me lay Jeanne on a bench and instil her the water.

Uncontrollably tears ran down her cheeks. Silently I stroked the back of her hand in a meagre attempt to calm her.

Soon she regained her composure. While she disappeared in the Ladies' for a few minutes, I apologised to the enraged waiter.

The National Theatre was near the north-eastern edge of the former Britannian settlement. We took the Circle Line home. Due to the late hour we were almost alone in the wagon. Somewhere near Roppongi Jeanne broke the silence, so quiet I could barely understand her. "I'm sorry you had to see that." It was obvious to both of us that she meant herself equally – it was obvious that she was ashamed.

Long pause. I didn't know what to say.

"Whoever He is … you have to leave him," I quietly insisted. "What He's doing there … that's abuse … it's obvious that you're suffering."

Jeanne smiled. "Why do you care so much?," she asked instead of a response. "You won't get anything in return, you know."

"Why … why would I need a reason?"

Silently she took my face in her hands, turned it towards her and gently touched my lips with hers. I blinked, then returned the kiss, but she had already drawn back. She smiled, but her eyes were dull and sorrowful. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "It really is impossible."

Again she kissed me and this time I returned the kiss in time. "He hasn't yet forbidden it …"

* * *

><p><em>Imperial Headquarters of the Supreme Army Command (IHESAC), Bogotá, Viceroyalty of Colombia, Holy Britannian Empire (South)<em>

_The same time_

* * *

><p>The Lord threw a short glance at His watch. Just after 10 am – midnight in Tokyo. If they had started punctually at half past eight, His daughter had already received her message.<p>

The elderly diplomat next to Him cleared his throat. Sweat stood on his brow. "Monsieur …," he began in French, too quiet for the guardsmen to hear, and with the awe and submission of a man whose dialogue partner is holding his son captive. "It's time …"

The Lord replied with a saccharine smile. "Of course, father." He followed the diplomat through the long, simple corridors.

It had been the easiest thing in the world to steal the identity of the ambassador's son. They were similarly built; hair and eye colour were no problem whatsoever. The loyalty of the ambassador He had gained through the simple trick of abducting his son from his Swiss boarding school and politely note the ambassador on it.

They halted before two guardsmen in dark grey uniforms flanking a door. Silently the ambassador handed one of them their ID cards. The soldier threw a quick look at them. "Welcome, Excellency. Sir. Just go in." With those words he knocked twice, then opened the door.

Like an obedient son would, He followed the older man inside. A large, yet Spartan library with a large reading table and three chairs in the centre. Two other men awaited them – one hoary professor of philosophy of 61 years in White Tie and another, younger one.

Immediately He focused on the latter. He was still a boy, as He knew, exactly 16 years and 272 days old, one metre 79 tall and weighed 72 kilograms. Carroty hair, dark green eyes, his father's high cheekbones and his late mother's small nose. He dressed simply, wherefore he felt stiff and unnatural even in the dark business suit without tie he was wearing. He was very interested in history and had with the fascination of horror read a lot on Caligula, Zhang Xianzhong, Lelouch and the likes of them. He had no friends, an antipathy against his father and felt incredibly lonely. Which made him easily manipulable.

And his name was Charles Alexander of Britannia, crown prince of the South.

The Lord put on a friendly, open smile as the diplomat introduced them very briefly and then handed his "son" to the professor. Then His "father" left and He sat on the empty chair to the prince's right. "Louis de Chateaubriand. Just call me Louis," He introduced Himself and reached out his hand. The prince frowned, blinked two or three times, then shook it with an insecure smile. "… Alex," he responded.

"Sorry for intruding," He claimed. "If you have any objections to my presence, sir …"

"Not at all," the prince quickly assured. "Well, er … it's really boring to study alone. I'm glad to meet you."

Understandingly, He nodded and set out to reply. Just as expected He was interrupted by the professor, which would only serve to lower the prince's opinion of the latter. "If we could start the lesson, gentlemen …"

The Lord gave the prince an apologetic look, then turned His attention to the teacher with an angelic smile.

By the end of the lesson, He had wrestled the discussion away from the professor, who was insignificant and ridiculous compared to His presence, and won the crown prince's trust.


	23. 22nd Chapter: Lever

****Perhaps I should clarify: whenever I write "the same time" in the place/time header, this means the same time as specified in the last header. Not necessarily the same time, but the same date.

Also, as of today, the German version of this fanfiction is discontinued. That should help my update speed and general quality.

Do check out my new CG / Napoleonic Wars crossover, "Raise the Bloodied Banner". Now with 200 per cent more cavalry charges.

* * *

><p><strong>Twenty-second Chapter – Lever<strong>

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><p><em>Tokyo, Republic of Japan, United Federation of Nations<em>

_5th of December 2034 a.t.b._

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><p>"… <em>looks as if this latest southern offensive will be successful. The North's army has been pushed back some two hundred kilometres from the Chucunaque River, all the way to Panama City. That's an undeniable success for the South.<em>"

"_The question remains whether they can profit from that success. Just consider last winter, when the North's troops stood before Bogotá and still had to withdraw. I don't dare believe it'll be different this time. The South will break off the offensive and withdraw to their Siegfried Line once again._"

"_Well, sooner or later one of the home fronts will collapse. But right now, it does indeed look like the South will be able to force a return to mobile warfare – according to an unverified source in the EUROFORCE General Staff, Panama City is surrounded on three sides by southern troops. Our correspondents report the evacuation and fortification of the city. Field Marshal Princess Cornelia has apparently relocated her headquarters to the city – so, it seems to be serious._"

"_Can't the South just move around the city?_"

"_No. Panama City controls the isthmus, and therefore the South's supply lines. In theory, they could support their field army from the sea, but in practice, the North can destroy any fleet the South could possibly muster._"

"_What will come next?_"

"_Most likely, the South will split its forces and attempt to take the city while keeping the way northwards open. Of course, it's not that simple. For the North, giving up on Panama City means inviting the South into Mexico, which would make any counter-offensive risky. Hence, I currently believe that the Battle of Panama will be decided in stubborn urban fighting, where the North can use both its advantage as the defender and its naval superiority to full extent. The eastern wing of the South's army will, meanwhile, attempt to keep open the way northwards and secure the supply lines. It'll be very difficult, but possible._"

"_Thanks for your analysis, Wall-sensei. You may find further information on the issue on our website – the address should be shown at the bottom of your screen. And now for a report from our correspondent in Panama City_ …"

I turned off the television. Blissful silence.

"Looks like your folks are in trouble," Jeanne noted.

Silently, I turned towards her. She was slouching around on the couch, absent-mindedly skimming through an old book on organics I had borrowed from the school library to catch up. I sat down next to her.

"Looks like it," I agreed. "If the South takes Panama City, the North can perhaps be forced to terms."

Jeanne smirked, very briefly, then returned to the glum expression she'd displayed all day. "Remember you'll one day inherit everything that remains after the peace treaty. Perhaps you should be a bit more careful what you wish for."

I blushed. "I … I didn't mean it like that …," I mumbled. "It's just … any peace, no matter how ignoble, is better than this war."

Suddenly interested, Jeanne slammed the chemistry book shut, put it on the couch table and sat up straight. "So the first thing you'd do after acceding to the throne would be asking for an armistice?"

Without hesitation I confirmed. Even if the South's emperor would not agree to a peace based on status quo, he would accept an armistice. One could always take the EU or the UFN up on their offers of mediation.

"Alright," Jeanne continued. "Let's assume Emperor Charles is willing to negotiate terms. The Emperor of the French has, if I recall correctly, offered to mediate a peace. So, you send your diplomats to Paris. On day one, the South demands a border north of the Nicaragua Canal. Do you accept?"

This time, I hesitated. The canal between the Caribbean Sea and the Pacific Ocean had been untouched by the fighting (save a few indecisive naval engagements) and stayed under the North's firm control. Gaining it would, for the South, be an invaluable strategic advantage: not only the North's navy would be split by it – it would have opened the way into the soft belly of Area Three.

On the other hand, the South could at any time break off talks and fight on should their demands be denied …

"Yes," I finally said. "If they insist, I'd give them the canal."

"Day two," Jeanne immediately continued. "To secure peace, the North is supposed to demilitarise the rest of Area Three, restrict their armed forces to their pre-war size and scrap all heavy weaponry, including most _Parceval _Knightmares_._ Do you accept?"

Quietly I leaned back on the couch. It was obvious that unilateral disarmament and demilitarisation of the border would be tantamount to inviting another invasion later on. But what else could I do than rely on Emperor Charles staying true to his word? "I'd accept."

"Day three. The South's delegation begins to question your authority," Jeanne continued. "You being a bastard, they demand a referendum in the North to settle the struggle for the throne once and for all. Do you give in?"

This time, I didn't hesitate. "It's obvious what you're aiming at," I said, "And yet, I'd give in to that as well. Nothing rather, in fact."

Jeanne granted me a dry smirk. "Not a very healthy attitude, if you ask me," she laconically noted. "He who does not love power, forsakes the world." Casually she touched my hand with hers, a silent promise of goodwill. "Then you already know what comes next. On day four, Emperor Charles demands for you to cede his throne to him. Britannia shall at last be reunited, and there is no place for the House of Britannia-Tudor in the new Realm."

Her cold, demanding gaze pierced right through me, as always. Her voice a sharp staccato. "Do you accept?"

I closed my eyes. Then, slowly, I nodded. "If it's the only chance for peace, I will."

Jeanne chuckled and softly kissed my cheek. "You're weird," she calmly stated. "Anyone – any normal person – would at the first unacceptable demand put his foot down. The South would probably accept it, too, considering they _are _negotiating. They can only win if you stop resisting."

"And yet – where there is no resistance, no one dies."

Jeanne's smile disappeared. "You're … so different," she whispered as if that said it all. "I think I like that about you." She brought some distance between us. Exhausted, she leaned back in the couch's pillows; silently stared at the glass table in front of us. I followed her gaze. The chemistry book, her phone.

Eventually, she broke the silence. Quiet. Defeated. Almost fearful. "Why …? Why did He give you the sword?"

I startled.

_How the hell did she know about the sword?_

Of course I'd seen her with my sword of the order in … _that _night, but how did she know about Jeremiah?

Well, after all, it _was _Jeanne, I reasoned. She always knew more than she was supposed to … perhaps I should just give up on being surprised.

"I … I don't know," I finally admitted. "It came out of the blue …"

I hesitated. Indeed – never had Jeremiah told me the reason for his decision. Never had I asked for one. Of course it had been agreed on with the Empress and the other members of the Order, judging from his reaction to … to Henry. But what had been his criteria? Had the only reason been my lineage?

Jeanne gulped. Her eyes were wide open. I was reminded of that evening at the opera, when she had collapsed … In a painfully helpless attempt to support her, to ease her worries, I stroked her back. "Is … are you alright?," I quietly asked.

I could have killed myself for that question. Should have, too. _Of course _she wasn't alright, and most likely it was my fault …

"It's just …," she haltingly began, then once more broke off. "I … I must sound incredibly selfish … But … I haven't spoken to Him for three months now …"

He.

Unnecessary to specify. _He _was the only person Jeanne ever spoke of with such submissive, fearful adoration. And yet we hadn't talked about Him since that evening – to my great relief. I had supposed He now left her alone. I had hoped.

"Today's a … special day," Jeanne continued. Pause. "Last time He called was in early September. Also, it was a different time of the day than usual – as if He wasn't in France any more, but somewhere in the Americas …"

"And … you worry about Him."

Silently, Jeanne nodded.

I closed my eyes. What a monster He had to be, He who had thus subdued Jeanne – _Jeanne! _Strong, free, undaunted Jeanne! (my) Jeanne! … who had forced her into this cruel dependency.

No.

Something tore inside of me, painful trepidation in my chest. This couldn't go on. Couldn't go on. She mustn't suffer any more, must be freed. I didn't know what to do (what was _I _to do?).

Silently, I sat up and took her phone from the couch table. Expressionless her gaze followed me as I unlocked it and opened the mobile's address book. There were almost no entries – the members of the Student Council. That was it.

"Pointless," she commented. "Not even I can contact Him if He doesn't want me to. Mother called me a few times, of course, but she doesn't know anything about His whereabouts, either …"

I should have liked to interrupt her at this.

_Her mother_.

Not once had I heard her talk about her home, her family, or her past. As far as I knew, none of the other Student Councillors knew anything about it, either. It felt awkward to exploit Jeanne's momentary weakness – like a breach of trust. But still …

For what did this mean?

If Jeanne said that her mother was supposed to know about His whereabouts, that should mean they were close. Closer than He and Jeanne herself, apparently … And what did this mean?

Up until now, I had always assumed that He was some kind of ex-boyfriend of Jeanne – some overwhelmingly intimidating figure who still held sway over her. But in fact, their relationship had never been particularly like I imagined such a relationship to be – too one-sided, probably. If He frightened her so much, I could not understand why she should then have descended to love me and risk a scorned lover's revenge.

For indeed I loved her, and indeed she loved me; for I could not imagine _Him _allowing such betrayal – were he indeed her lover.

Which left one thing.

He was her _father_.

Jeanne continued. "Should He wish to speak to you, He would just do so. You cannot find Him. For He finds you. And makes you His."

* * *

><p><em>IHESAC, Bogotá, Viceroyalty of Colombia<em>

_The same time_

* * *

><p>With an annoyed sigh, the princeling threw the white leather gloves on the bed and loosened his tie. The Lord approached it to take off its grey greatcoat.<p>

"It's awful," the princeling repeated as it took off its waist belt, then unbuttoned the light grey tunic. "I've no idea why I always have to be present when father inspects parades." The tunic and the peaked hat followed on the bed. The Lord neatly folded the mantle, then laid it over the armrest of a chair. Demanding an answer, the princeling turned around to face Him.

"Why's he doing that?," it asked Him. "Do his soldiers fight better if they may put on impractical uniforms and goose-step past him as a reward?"

The Lord gave a slight chuckle. "The point is pretending to the people that war is a glorious and honourable affair," He gently explained. "The practical use of parades and ceremony is indirect. Every day we don't manage to defeat the North, hundreds of our soldiers die. We cannot expect the people to understand what's at stake. Hence, we have to at least convince them that war be not the hell it is."

"That … that's too cynical for me," the princeling responded, blushing. Then, it smiled at Him. "Ah, whatever. You're probably right, Lulu …"

The Lord had quite some experience with His current role, which made it easy to hide His unease at the abuse of the nickname. A light twitching of the corner of His mouth that could be seen as a smile was the sole indicator of the princeling's blasphemy.

"That doesn't explain why I have to be there all the time," it noted and began to walk up and down in the spacious bedroom.

The Lord shrugged. "Don't know about that," He claimed, gently pushing the princeling in the right direction. "I can only imagine he wants to educate into some role this way."

"Possible," the princeling agreed, lighting up. "Probably a clone of himself … bitter militarism … cold, austere discipline …" It shuddered. "He shall fail!"

He gently smiled as He unhurriedly removed His own peaked cap, stripped off the gloves and unbuttoned the greatcoat. "I'm sure of that. You'll be a better monarch than he ever was."

The princeling blushed once more, turned around to evade His gaze and lay down on the bed. "I don't know," it said. "What's that? Good monarchs … worldwide, there are about a dozen monarchs wielding actual power right now, aren't there?"

He nodded in agreement.

"None of them could actually be called a _good _monarch, I'd say … all of them have somehow bloodied their hands. There are two I'd like to emulate – but they as well have blood on their hands. For one, Napoleon V – apart from his actions during the war against Britannia. The other one's Empress Nunnally in the North – apart from the civil war. Of course, most of those matters were beyond their influence, but still …"

The princeling broke off, slightly irritated. The Lord suppressed a sigh. "Well, I can't speak about Napoleon V, of course, legally being his subject. Concerning Nunnally …" He shook His head, chuckling lightly. For a tiny moment He closed His eyes to mentally prepare for the treason He would now commit.

"Have you ever wondered who's her son's father?"

Surprised, the princeling sat up. "Not really," it admitted. "Don't tell me you know that as well."

"One learns quite a lot listening to my father when he's drunk," He eerily said. Couldn't hurt to relate to the princeling's Oedipal complex. "Think about it, Charles," He calmly asked it. "You have read dozens of her brother's biographers. Prince Faramond was born almost exactly nine months after His Majesty's death, so he was probably conceived immediately after his death. Who was closest to her around that time? Who has since been rewarded with the Empress' favour?"

For a moment, nothing happened as the Lord quietly asked for forgiveness. Then, the princeling's eyes widened as the horrible idea came to it. "You … you mean …"

Solemnly, He nodded.

"Her half-brother … Prince Schneizel … is the father of her son?," it stuttered, appalled. Then, all doubts disappeared at a smile from the Lord. The princeling's pretty face grimaced. "Why, that's disgusting … but I suppose it fits the facts well. That should explain why he's still prime minister, as well …"

He gave it a dry smile and sat down on the bed to the princeling's side. "And do you know what that means for you?"

A blink. "Y…yes," it then said. "That … Prince Faramond was conceived illegitimately in an unnatural union, thus is illegitimate and _can't _inherit the throne …"

Once more, He nodded. "And that is why we have to continue this war until we have won."

Pause. Just long enough to enable a credible change of topic, just short enough to seem random. One seed had been planted, another watered, now on to the next flowerbed.

"Of course, she's not the only side in this civil war with horrible secrets in her closet," he casually mentioned.

The princeling hesitated with … whatever it was doing with its hand and frowned. "What do you mean?," it confusedly asked.

The Lord pretended to be surprised. His eyes widened. "You … you don't know …?," He silently asked.

He could barely hide His pleasure at seeing the effect. The research had been a shot in the dark, but their result incredibly useful. The effect on the princeling, of course, was tremendous: He could practically see the princeling's thoughts rapidly hunting each other. How it had one foreboding after another, each more horrible than the former. How its eyes widened, its lips trembled.

Hesitatingly, He leaned in and pulled the princeling into a tight lover's embrace, bedding His head on its shoulder. Silently, obviously afraid, it gave in to His embrace. "I'm so sorry," He whispered into its ear. Then: "Charles …" He felt the princeling stiffening at the name. Well, revenge was sweet. "Have you … have they ever told you what your mother died of?"

"It … it was a stroke," the princeling insecurely whispered. "She fell down a slippery staircase in St. Petersburg, in the winter of 2032 … she got a check-up, but they overlooked a burst brain artery … two months later …"

It broke off. Gently He ran His hand through its hair. "I'm sorry," He repeated. Time for the _coup de grâce_. "Before I came here … I once overheard my father and the European Foreign Secretary discussing Emperor Charles …" He hesitated. Useless to go into detail – the seed was planted and had fallen on fertile ground. All it needed to grow into a beautiful, thorny rose were time and love.

For that was the princeling's weakest point – _give me a place to stand and I shall move you the world. _That place – that Archimedic lever – was the emperor.

The Lord couldn't stand all those little Oedipusses; they were far too common, far too simple.

The princeling gasped for air. "L…Lulu …," it whispered, tightly clinging to His back. "You think she was …" The last word was but a suggestion.

"That is what the European government thinks," He responded. "But … it's very well possible. Cerebral haemorrhages don't work that way." Indeed they did. Whatever – not the truth was what He aimed at, but the result. In other words, business as usual.

Long silence. The Lord's thoughts were already wandering further down the road – now it was obvious what would come next: His opponent would soon attempt a queen's gambit; hence He would have to find a way to win the opponent's queen …

"I don't understand," the princeling whispered. "Why … why would he …"

It trembled. Its hands were cold as ice.

Slowly, very slowly, He led His lips to the princeling's left ear. "Every problem can be solved," He whispered. "Even this one. If we work together, just like Lelouch the Great and his well-trusted and well-loved knight, we can free this world of illegitimate despots … reunite Britannia and lead her back to glory and power … and finally, avenge your mother. You only have to trust me. Do you trust me, Charles?

For a long moment, the princeling was silent. It was cold in the bedroom. The officer's coat weighed heavy on His shoulders; the woollen cloth felt scratchy.

Then, hesitatingly, fearfully, the princeling nodded. "I trust you. I … I'll gladly die for you," it responded (thank you, He would take it up on that offer). "Just tell me what to do … Lulu …"

"You have to be patient, my prince … and ruthless in your righteous crusade."


	24. 23rd Chapter: Hindsight

**Soooo. **You missed me? :D Sorry. I was distracted by my other fanfiction (Raise the Bloodied Banner), my shiny new Windows 8, the invitation to an interview for history at Oxford, and watching Darker than Black. KIRIHARA X HEI X SUOU X HEI X YIN X HAZUKI FOREVAR. And Hei x Elephant, too.**  
><strong>

The specs for the _Tristan Restoration _are based somewhat on the Lockheed Martin F-22, the ones for the South's aerial defence are based on the PATRIOT system. The-Pass-upon-Bravo, by the way, is the Britannian name for El Paso by the Rio Bravo.

Sorry if this chapter is rather plot-heavy. Just to get the point across, Faramond himself lampshades that in his narration around the middle. He's sorry, too, but he doesn't know of you guys. Yet.

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><p><strong>Twenty-third Chapter – Hindsight<strong>

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><p>In hindsight, I had been amazingly stupid.<p>

It had been foolish to assume that it was indeed Jeremiah who had knighted Jeanne, and she had been at first confused, then indignant when I falsely supposed that he had. She had seemed to take the idea that it had been Jeremiah as an insult, and had refused to further discuss the issue. Though she had seemingly forgiven me the day after her outburst, I still felt bad about it. On the other hand, of course, I knew nothing. In a way, it had been natural for me to assume that it had been Jeremiah for her, too. He had knighted me and seemed to be a kind of "grand master" of the Order's informal hierarchy. Judging from their reactions after I had knighted Henry, I doubted that any one of my sworn brothers and sisters would have knighted a new member without getting Jeremiah's approval.

And what if they had gotten his approval and kept Jeanne's membership secret? That did not seem particularly likely to me. The only members who had been even remotely near France in the last few years were my mother, who had paid a state visit to the Emperor of the French three years ago (the first reigning Britannian monarch to do so since Henry VIII met Francis I at the Field of the Cloth of Gold in 1555 a.t.b.), and Lieutenant-General Lady Kozuki, who at the time led the Black Knights' peacekeeping task-force in war-torn Naples, the capital of the Italian Republic. I did not know either of them well enough to be certain, but nevertheless it seemed very unlikely to me that either the Empress or Lady Kozuki had knighted Jeanne.

Furthermore, I could not see _why _she had been admitted into the Order. I could barely see why I had myself been knighted, and it had been due to my lineage – the Order would need imperial protection beyond the Empress' death. All of the other members had been part of Emperor Lelouch's original scheme, or figured it out during or immediately after its execution. So, why Jeanne, then? What use could a French teenage girl, even if as gifted and enthralling as she was, be to the Order?

I remembered a curious incident in April – ages ago! – when Kate had first dragged me out of my study to a gambling den. The bouncer had mentioned in passing that he had already let a student inside that day. Inside, we found Jeanne. At the time, I had ascribed her passing to bribery, a passed banknote, something like that. In fact, Jeanne never seemed to lack for money, be it for clothes, entertainment or high bets at the chessboard (which she almost invariably won, unless playing against me, in which case the odds were about even). But if there was anything the Order had enough of, it was money. One member was a sovereign empress, another was nominal viceroy of Area 2, three members held amongst them the spoils of the development of the _Parceval _class of Knightmares, _Avalon _class of airships and the infamous FLEIJA bomb. The Order had one Chief of the Imperial General Staff, two Knights of the Round Table, and Zero, who, though now unaffiliated with the Black Knights, still was incredibly prestigious. Oh, and me.

In any case, the issue seemed to be a wound spot to her. I should have seen that when she had first spoken of it, and not persisted. But I had persisted, and every time I asked, our relationship deteriorated a bit more. Even when I had learned to keep my stupid mouth shut, the inevitable elephant in the room put a strain on … whatever there was between us. I could not even apologise, because there was nothing left to apologise for. The tenderness that had once been seemed to dissolve. Meanwhile, the quicker our relation approached what might be called friendship at best and acquaintance at worst, the more often Jeanne drew me into her bed. As if neither of us were willing to accept that I had ruined it. But the tender feelings were gone.

In hindsight, I had been _amazingly _stupid.

After she had taken me to the opera, I had gotten a book on the composer Richard Wainwright from the school library. He had written several other, unrelated works, amongst them _Tannhäuser_, written before his exile from Saxony in German. The main character had entered the grotto of Venus, where he remained in spite of better knowledge, captive only by his love for the goddess and sensual pleasures. Or Odysseus, who was held by the bonds of Calypso's love for seven long years – neither was too dissimilar to my situation. It felt good to love Jeanne and be loved by her. It felt good to be with the other Student Councillors, pretend I were truly one of them. It felt too good. I had, perhaps, fallen for the illusion myself.

But, like the memory of the Mother of God redeemed Tannhäuser and the love he bore Penelope freed Odysseus, the illusion could not last. Bear with me as I continue the metaphor: an illusion, say, a stage magician's trick, can only work as long as it is left undisturbed. The moment the curtain falls, it is over. The moment an audience member dares a close look, the secret is lifted. The moment the doors open to admit a late arrival, the magic is gone. No illusion can last forever. What alone matters, in the end, are the demands of our bodies. Food, drink, sex are our highest cravings. When they demand their due, all illusions are broken.

But it does not end there. The more elaborate a lie is, the simpler it is destroyed. The more it hinges on things going just right, the less likely they are to succeed. My life as Alexander Lamperouge was just like that – an elaborate lie. It hinged on my friends not recognising me for Prince Faramond, on Kate and later Jeanne keeping my secret, on the knowledge of my absence from New Haven not spreading beyond the palace grounds, on tricking southern spies and it hinged on the support of Her Imperial Majesty's Government.

I had known that it could not last, had even known the manner of its end. I was a fool to choose to believe in it, for believing would only make the loss hurt more.

In hindsight, I had been amazingly _stupid._

I had thought it did not concern me. I was half a world away from the front-lines. Ashford Academy had students from the elites of both the North and the South, and the sizeable Japanese-Britannian community honoured both sides and paid service to none. Though the Duchess of Ashford was a peer and a Lady of the Garter of the North, she tried to favour neither side. The Japanese and UFN governments, though vaguely sympathetic to the northern cause, were staunchly neutral. The war had no power here.

Or so I had thought, until one day in mid-December after classes were over I entered the Student Council room and found Shirley, Naoto and Kate already there. Kate was quietly talking to the other girl, who had obviously been crying, gently stroking her hand. Naoto was walking up and down the room, fuming, looking for something to destroy.

I should not have spoken. But I did ask, sheepish and insensitive. "Alex," Kate had told me in a grave voice, "There was a letter from New Haven … Lord Weinberg has fallen."

And the first thing I had thought of had been: what will this mean for the war?, and I hated myself for it.

I gulped. I did not know what to say. What _does _one say? And then I said, my throat dry, my voice hoarse, "I'm so sorry …" And though Kate gave me an odd look, and though this prompted Naoto to punch a dent into the door of a locker and scream his rage and grief for the father he had claimed to hate at everyone and no one in particular, I meant it. _Two_, I thought, _that makes it two_ _plus millions_.

In hindsight – in hindsight those had been blissful days.

In hindsight, I still missed Henry. To be no one in a world half empty, alone with Henry whom I had given all my heart and the two little sisters I had not dared to visit since and Jeremiah with all the eccentricities of a knight too old to fight and Anya who barely ever spoke a work and with _Henry_. Those had been the happiest day of my life. Far off from all the destruction that I had caused, far off from all the lies surrounding me a spidery web growing tighter and tighter.

At Ashford, I could not escape fate. Could not escape the war, could not escape the lies. Jeanne was as much a spider as Jeremiah had been, a beautiful, lovely spider. I could barely look Shirley and Naoto in the eyes any more as I was eaten up from inside by guilt. I had been responsible for Gino Weinberg's death as much as the lucky southerner who pulled the trigger, I realised. If not for me, the Empress would have yielded long ago.

Hence, I had known that it could not go on like this.

The call had come late in December 2034. The twins had returned to attending school only days ago, but they still brought a gloomy atmosphere wherever they went. We of the Council had tried to visit them during their absence, but found Lady Kozuki's apartment deserted. When they returned, they wouldn't talk about where they had been, but Kate suggested that they might have been in Naples with their mother, or in Britannia for their father's state funeral. If so, they had not shown up on television.

The funeral ceremony had been solemn and vaguely uplifting. An honour guard of four Knights of the Round Table, all in black, stood by the coffin draped with the national flag, before it soft pillows displaying the orders, medals, sword and spurs of the late knight. A battery of the Imperial Horse Artillery fired a 4-gun salute. The Empress was in attendance, and Princess Cornelia and Lord Gottwald gave short addresses, full of platitudes. Lord Weinberg died a valiant and honourable death and it would not be in vain. He would be an example to the Realm's brave soldiers on the front-lines and its loyal subjects behind them. And though the Realm might be under duress, it would prevail.

But I appear to be side-tracked. Strange, in fact: of course I had known that it would have to end. Had those months been so pleasant that I would try to unmake it happening, try to go back …

I shall have to apology. I found it hard to put the events of the year 2034 on paper and forced myself to limit my account to some glimpses of special importance, in hopes to give my hypothetical reader some idea of my feelings. However, I am limited with words. I have never been a writer, more of a reader myself, and naturally not good with words. I feel my descriptions have improved since I began this, but they are still not near what I should like them to be. Furthermore – but I already said that, did I not? – those are not memories that are easily put in writing. Ink on paper can never capture what I felt throughout that year, can only ever offer glimpses, but not all. Perhaps I should have kept a diary these past years, but I suppose it is rather late for that. No, my time of Ashford cannot be described as a series of events. Rather, it had been a general feeling, a fluid dream, a stream of sounds and images. A web, more properly. Every event – every image, every sound, every sensation – was contained in itself, and yet part of a greater whole, but that greater whole was only loosely connected to its objective context; the life of Faramond of Britannia.

I sigh and wish I had some way to erase those last lines. I could scratch them out, of course. But everything in me is repulsed by the thought of disturbing the straight lines of narrow cursive ink on white paper with the letterhead of the hotel. I could have written this on my laptop, but perchance I was afraid no one would find this.

I think I should throw the stack of paper into the fire once I'm done. For what are the odds? Even if we assign a probability of 99.9 per cent to the papers being burned, there is a chance of one in a thousand that they are not burned. And if they are not burned, perhaps there is a one in a thousand chance that my writings are found, and a one in a thousand chance that they are published, and a one in a thousand chance that they are read by – by whomever I secretly wish for them to be read by. And even if the chances are against it, there is still a chance of one in a hundred millions that my writings will be read by whomever I secretly wish for them to be read by. For what are the odds? There is perhaps a chance of one in a million millions that I am not completely doomed.

I rise from my desk to look for new paper; the last batch of a hundred sheets is gone, every single sheet covered in my writing. I have made little corrections. It is the fourth batch; 400 pages. At twenty lines a page and ten words a line, some eighty thousand words. Are eighty thousand words enough for the story of fifteen years, with three more to come? – I am young – I look for more paper, cursing myself. I find some loose sheets from the past weeks, scattered in the suite. Then I finally give in to the necessity and call the room service, asking them to bring up another batch of paper. I use the following five minutes to work on my disguise; though it mostly consists of bad lighting, glasses and far too little sleep. A maid comes with another hundred sheets of white paper with the letterhead of the hotel, a weary, strained smile on her face. She warns me that it would be expensive, says it is near-impossible to get such things on the black market. I smile back, take the paper and hand her the first coinage I find – a chocolate bar from the tiny fridge. Her eyes light up as she lets the valuable sweets disappear into a pocket of her uniform, I close the door and get back to writing.

I curse myself. I don't have much time left. I certainly have no time to fritter thus. Well, time to get down to business, then.

Oh, just a little.

No.

Remember that one time when – but enough of that.

The call came on the 23rd of December, 2034. Exactly one year after Henry's death. I had no time to properly mourn him, though, as Kate, Naoto and I were busy trying to place a star on the top of the four metres fir in the school's front yard using a one-and-a-half metres ladder while Jeanne, Chigusa and Shirley were running around the school and dormitory buildings to apply some last decorations. "It's no use," I had finally said, Naoto nodding in agreement, "We need a longer ladder or a shorter tree."

Kate stood with her hands on her hips, frowning as Naoto climbed down the too-short ladder. "Don't be silly. The tree last year was barely taller and we still got the star on it. Look – it's obvious we can't place the ladder on anything else, the ground is far too slushy. I'm fairly certain, though, that we've got some kind of tongs somewhere …"

"I don't think that'll work," Naoto differed. "The star isn't particularly robust and it's slightly too small to be easily placed on the fir's tip. Quite likely, it'll break before we've placed it."

Squinting, Kate clicked her tongue. "Pff. You're just not as good with your fingers as Alex." I blushed heavily. Her tone had made the innuendo perfectly clear. "Anyway, there must be some other possibility. Ah … I think Wycliff's theology and Jigoro's PE classes still have class. We could just fetch the male students to help us lower the tree, just enough to fix the star on it …"

I looked at Naoto. He shrugged. "I suppose that could work. Alex, you go look for Wycliff's people?"

We parted, Kate staying behind to guard the cardboard boxes full of tree ornaments. I had to check for the class' location on the extensive timetables I had saved on my mobile, but did not need long to convince Wycliff to hand over his male students. The fact that it was late in the afternoon and he was as tired as any of them probably helped. Near the main entrance, however, my phone rang and I told the students to go ahead before looking at the display. The caller ID was suppressed, so I supposed it was Jeanne and found myself grinning. I took off. "Hey," I softly said.

"_It's 1:20 am and I've got a video with the European prime minister at half past, so I'll make this quick_," said my uncle's voice.

I froze. I had not heard this voice since the day I had been called back from Lord Gottwald's plantation. After he had murdered Henry exactly one year ago, I had hoped never to hear it again. The Prime Minister's voice was cool and smooth, as always. Eerie. As if nothing had happened.

That was, I like to think, the moment I realised that Prince Schneizel was a serpent: ever smooth, ever poisonous. Someone who had caused more deaths than even I and, in contrast, did not even feel those cruel pangs of guilt.

"Sir," I whispered. A cold shiver ran down my back. I had not wanted to call him that, but the habit sat too deep.

And then the strikes followed in close succession. "_By agreement of the Privy Council, you are to return to Britannia on the 25__th__,_" he casually said. "_A plane will be awaiting you at Narita, 9:43 am. __Remember that. Well, if that is it –_"

But this time, something rose inside of me. There was no time to think. "May I ask where I'll be going, sir?," I asked with a strained voice, and it still came out too polite.

"_I would have told you had I deemed it necessary._" The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees. "_But as you have already been told of the decision before your leaving, I may just repeat it. You are to take up military training at Imperial St. Joseph's Military Academy at The-Pass-upon-Bravo. That is a political necessity._"

I gulped. I did not know what to say. I said the stupidest thing I could say, namely – "But what … but what about my friends here in Tokyo?"

Schneizel chuckled. "_That is none of my concern._" And with that, he hung up.

I do not really know what happened after that. That day's thick layer of snow seemed to have covered my memory, as well. I do believe, though, that I went back outside. The tree was already standing, star on top, by the time I reached them. The smiles on Kate's and Naoto's faces froze when they saw my expression.

I told them. I don't think I got my point across well, but I suppose Kate later filled Naoto up on the details I had omitted in my confused narrative. In any case, the result was that my friends now knew who I was and that I would be leaving. I barely remember their reactions, can only imagine them. When I spoke to them in later years, I noticed little to no change in their behaviour, to my great relief (though they all mentioned that_ I _had changed).

So, how _had _they reacted? Shocked, most likely. But beyond that? Sad, because I was leaving? Angry, because I had not told them? Disbelieving?

I only know Jeanne's reaction. Of course she had known who I was, and thus remained silent all the while. In fact, we had talked little in the two days before my departure. Whenever I had tried to talk to her, she had avoided me. Late at night, lying on my bed in my empty room, I had heard her talking on the phone, though apparently the person on the other end had done most of the talking. Her voice was choked and quiet.

My friends accompanied me to the airport. It was even more awkward than I had thought. Though I did not doubt the others, only Kate's embrace seemed natural – for she had known in advance that I could not stay, and had not been thus deceived. I was more than grateful for it, and I knew that Kate was more of a friend than Jeanne had ever been.

And still, when the others had stayed back, Jeanne had accompanied me all the way to the gate: she, too, would be leaving, to France, for the holidays, but contrary to me, she would return.

We stood by the gate, awkward and silent. The second boarding call came and went.

"So … I suppose this is it," I managed to say after a while. Jeanne barely twitched. She wore a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Had gotten a new haircut, too. She looked more stern, more severe, but still beautiful. Her hypnotic eyes, though, were I looked away.

There was another long pause. "I suppose it is," Jeanne finally said.

Yet another pause. The third boarding call. I sighed and shouldered my bag. "Well …," I lamely said, "I guess I'll get going …"

I had not expected Jeanne to take my hand and hold me back. Firm and warm. "Wait," she murmured. "Just …" She broke off. I waited. This was unlike her – but so it had been unlike her to break down in tears at the opera, ages ago …

I stood and waited. Around us, people were moving to board the waiting plane, but I barely noticed them. Jeanne's breathing was slow and deep.

"Don't leave."

I turned to face her. Awkwardly, I drew her into a hug. Her silky midnight black hair engulfing my hand. Her body warm against mine. "I must," I replied.

It felt strange. Even when in bed, we had not been this close for months. I felt good, but I knew it could not last.

"No," she quietly said. "No, you don't must. You must not do anything if you don't want to. If you do something, even if forced, you want to do it. When someone is holding a knife to your throat, you want to live. To do something without the wish to do so, and be it never so faint, is weakness. Are you weak, Faramond? But even if you are, you need not do anything against your wishes. Do you wish to leave? If not, stay."

Pause. "I would I could. But … there are obligations I have. People I have to obey. No matter how much I'd love to stay here, I cannot."

"And who made those obligations, if not yourself? Who placed these people above you, if not your own wishes? If they demand things of you which you are not willing to give them, you do not need to pay any obedience to them. You are, essentially, free, Faramond. … When it comes down to it, humans are selfish. No one does anything without hoping to be rewarded for it. You may not see it, but there always is a reward. Be it money or be it affection. But, in the end, our own bodies and 85 million years of primate evolution win out. Our genes can lead us to protect those of our kin, who share these genes, even at the cost of our lives, but it is rare. And beyond that? We are selfish beings. Who would not sacrifice all the people he loved to save his life? … And that is it. The mystery of human minds. There are no others."

"Then what of love?," I quietly asked, loosening the embrace to look into her eyes.

A bitter smile played around those eyes and her lips when she answered. "There is no mystery in love. Love … is a contract like any other. A deal to feel good for a while, to reproduce and to pretend. Even if the contracting parties don't necessarily know of each other."

Her words felt like a punch in the stomach, like a slap in the face. They stung. We parted.

I could not believe her words, because believing would mean to destroy the hoard and throw away the key. And yet, in a sense, I could not deny their truth. And still – "So … why then?"

Jeanne sighed. Again she tried to smile, but this time failed to. "I don't know," she whispered. "Let us call it a misunderstanding. A pleasant one." She hesitated, then leaned in to peck my cheek. I barely reacted. "Farewell, my prince," she said. "Farewell. Be free. For my sake, if not your own. Farewell."

And she was gone, and so was the hoard.

* * *

><p><em>New Haven, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire<em>

_10th of December 2034 a.t.b._

* * *

><p>Tonight, they all wore black.<p>

Usually the service uniforms of Her Majesty's Knights of the Round Table were all white and gold, their boots and gloves shiny black leather and their swords bright silver, but such was not befitting of a wake. Four of them – Lord Gottwald, Lady Alstreim, Lady Spencer and Lord Hamley – stood around the plain black lacquer coffin underneath the crossing tower of the abbey church. All of them wore black coats, trousers, waistcoats and cloaks. They rested their hands on their sword hilts, their heads solemnly lowered. A flag covered the coffin – the banner of the late Knight of Three; the imperial arms of Britannia impaled by the arms of Weinberg. The first emperor had first done so, Richard IV, whose claim to the throne had been flimsy at best and criminal at worst, who could or could not have poisoned his lover, Queen Elizabeth III, and had gone on to be quite likely the most successful ruler of Britannia since the reigns of Elizabeth I the Great and her son Henry IX the Magnificent. He had been free of all illusions: Britain was lost, Elizabeth's sister Mary firmly seated in the throne at the side of Lucien Bonaparte. Thus, he united the ancient Dukedom of Britannia – given to his ancestor by the First Virgin Queen to prepare the dynastic unification of the realms of England and Scotland under her son – with the Crown, transformed the unruly American colonies into duchies at his disposal and had himself proclaimed Emperor of Britannia.

The Knights of the Round had become his swords and shields. "A knight should serve his king and no one else," he had proclaimed and decreed that no Knight of the Round was ever to take a wife or father children and do nothing but emulate those most Christian of knights they were named after. Their spouse was their emperor, and accordingly they impaled their personal arms with those of the Realm in a fashion otherwise reserved to wives. That practice had quickly been taken up by other Knights of Honour; and when a knight's lord or lady died, their arms were replaced by plain Sable as a badge of shame. No knight ought live who failed in his duty to protect.

Upon the flag covering the late knight's coffin lay an unsheathed sword, helmet, a pair of spurs; the insignia of knighthood. Before it on dark green cushions the orders of the deceased: most centrally, the Garter and the plain large round badge from the ceremonial collar of a Knight of the Round, but also various military and civil decorations, all carefully laid out. None should say Lord Gino Weinberg had lacked in honour in his death.

The vast interior of the abbey church was mostly dark. At this hour, only blueish moonlight shone through the magnificent colourful windows. Candles burned on altars and before shrines. That was it, and so it took Cornelia a while until she noticed that she, Gilbert and the four waking knights were not alone in the church.

A woman sat on one of the benches in the dark, a wheelchair behind her. A masked and cloaked man all in black silently stood behind her.

Cornelia looked at Gilbert. Her knight nodded and walked past her towards Gottwald. The Knight of One looked up when he approached, then stepped aside and Gilbert took over the position at the right shoulder of the deceased. Meanwhile, Cornelia approached the other woman and sat by her side.

The Empress was, once more, dressed in mourning. A modest, slim-fit black dress with white lace by the collar, a necklace of black and white onyx and deep purple amethysts, a small black hat decorated with a white lily blossom and a long black veil that obscured her fair features. Cornelia's mourning dress consisted of her scarlet dress uniform and a black armband.

After a moment, Nunnally spoke. "He was a good man," she quietly said. "A true and loyal knight and a light in the lives of all his friends. He shall be greatly missed." Gottwald stood next to Cornelia. "He and Kallen have … well, had, two children. Twins, one boy and one girl, about the same age as my own son. They're attending Ashford with him at the moment. Someone will have to tell them … I'll have to write a letter and have my ambassador in Tokyo tell them the news."

There was a short pause. Cornelia looked at Gottwald. His mien was solemn and firm. "Ma'am …," she then began, turning back to Nunnally. "There are important things about Lord Weinberg's death we have to discuss. Is this place safe?"

The Empress nodded. "This is a holy place – twice holy, in fact, if those research papers my father funded were correct. This is where I was crowned. No one will listen to us. Speak your mind."

"… very well then. Let me explain the exact manner of Gino's death to you. He was on a recon mission over southern Panama. In particular, he was to gather data on what we supposed were troop concentrations near Apartadó." She sighed and paused to gather her thoughts. "You have to understand that Gino was piloting his custom-made _Tristan BK-201 "Restoration"_, which was an exceptionally light Knightmare built with speed of movement in mind. Also, he carried no armaments beyond the built-in machine cannons and Slash Harkens. He was travelling at a Supercruise velocity of Mach 2.31, which, at an altitude of about 17,000 metres, equals about 2450 kilometres per hour, or 2.31 times the speed of sound. Some of our most recent fighter jets can top that speed, but not for prolonged periods. The _Tristan Restoration _could. For comparison, the South's best ground-to-air missiles fly at Mach 5.0, which is, however, still easy to evade using the _Tristan_'s passive defence system. It also employs the latest stealth system, which has since its introduction three years ago never failed us and never been penetrated.

"Hence, Gino _could not _have been shot down as he was. Sadly, we were unable to retrieve the wreckage – it was, after all, only days later that his charred remains were transferred to our embassy in Paris by the South's representative there. It's his, by the way. The dental records were clear on that. In any case, I have just yesterday received the final report from our analysts – apparently, there is evidence that up to _fifty _missiles were fired at the _Tristan _at the same time. Most of the shots were rather off, of course, which suggests that stealth _was _working. However, the sheer number of missiles made it impossible for Gino to evade them."

There was a long pause as the Empress let the information sink in. When she finally asked for the field marshal's conclusions, her voice sounded strained.

Cornelia once more looked at Jeremiah. She would not be the one to break the news to her sister. The Knight of One took the burden from her. "Ma'am," he said, "we are now almost certain that there is a traitor amongst us."

Slowly, Nunnally nodded. "I feared as much. Feared as much ever since you told me that Sir Gavin had waved my would-be assassin through the security check. I do suppose the only ones we can truly trust are our brothers and sisters _in requiem_ … who knew of the mission?"

"Beside myself and Jeremiah, Lords Fisher and Fitzgerald, Lady Alstreim, General Warwick and the heads of Gino's ground support knew the details of the route we had planned out. I made note of it in my report to the Ministry of War, of course. If you will allow me the judgement, Warwick is not a traitor and Anya Alstreim was a close personal friend of Gino." She paused, looking at the pink-haired knight at the lower end of the coffin. Her face was expressionless, but Cornelia had been an officer for 24 years now. No soldier held any secrets from her, and it was clear to her that Anya was grieving.

"That leaves my knights," Nunnally sighed. "Sir Lance Fisher. Sir Percy Fitzgerald. Two young knights, the flower of our academies. The most promising nobles to enter the military for ten years. I selected and knighted them myself, at Schneizel's suggestion. And I may not like our half-brother, but no one can deny that he is capable. And the Geass makes up for what he lacks in loyalty. Would you say, Cornelia, Jeremiah, that the very knights who swore to protect me, to be my swords and shield, my husband in lack of one, have betrayed me?"

There was another pause. Then, Cornelia nodded. "Yes, Ma'am. Please consider that they are in the perfect position to betray us. From the outbreak of the war to this day, we have recorded 4,815 incidents of treason, sabotage and espionage. The greater part of those we have been able to ascribe to 512 known southern collaborators, all of whom are either in custody, dead, or under surveillance. However, there remain some five hundred incidents the perpetrators of which we have so far been unable to pinpoint. Unfortunately, that includes all of the hundred largest strikes against our forces. Little things in themselves, but they accumulate: a regiment ambushed while patrolling the no man's land, a position sabotaged, a map or timetable played into the enemy's hand, an officer sniped. There were some truly spectacular things, though – for example, when, during last years Winter Offensive, we found on the first day that the enemy had recently strengthened his defences in the very sectors we had been planning to attack the hardest. All this information was highly classified, but who would suspect a Knight of the Round? Who, indeed? They've been playing us, playing you all along, your good Lords Fisher and Fitzgerald and Hamley. Consider this: all of them are from ancient and rich families, unlike, say, Ladies Spencer, Alstreim and DeWitt. To say they are conservative would be the understatement of the century. As long as the war goes on, they know, you cannot rule without the Imperial Party's seats in the Commons and the peerage. However, the moment we win this war, all those noble and rich houses face destruction. Don't deny it, Nunnally, it's been long established that you want to cut down on the privileges of the hereditary peers. Compared to that, the South can offer them money, power, and security. Think about it."

Nunnally looked up at the vaulted ceiling far above them. "Cornelia," she then urged, "Jeremiah … I want you to find whomever is responsible for this. Find him, without a doubt. I do not care for revenge – it was clear from the beginning that good men and women would die in this unholy war, and Gino was well aware of that. However, whoever has betrayed me this time, we cannot allow that person to go on sowing death amidst us. _I want him found and executed._"

Cornelia nodded, smiling with relief before realising how inappropriate it was. "Of course, Ma'am. Nunnally." And, to her surprise, she noticed that she was holding her sister's hand.

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><p>Please review.<p> 


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